LEAVE  S 


FROM 


AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK; 

WITH 

REMINISCENCES  AND  CHIT-CHAT 

OF   THE 

GREEN-ROOM     AND    THE     STAGE, 

n  tfslidr  anfo    atena 


BY 

GEORGE    VANDENHOFF. 


Decipit 

Frons  prlnrn  multos,  rara  mcns  intelligit 
Quod  interiore  condidit  cura  angulo. 

PHJEDBTTS. 

The  tinsel  glitter,  and  the  specious  mien 
Delude  the  most ;  few  pry  behind  the  scene. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY, 

846   &   848    BROADWAY. 

LONDON: 16   LITTLE   BRITAIN. 

1860. 


ENTEUED,  ixccording  to  Act.  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S59,  by 

GJI>Rt>E  YA!H>B*HK>FF;     '. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  ^>f*tfie  DistricV  C(ii*fr*  (JT  ^Jijf  United  States 


909 


CONTENTS. 


I. 

PA.GB 

Mr  DEBUT— Covent  Garden  Theatre— MADAME  VESTRIS— CHARLES  MA- 
THEWS— Law  versu*  Stage—"  Kule  a  Wife  and  have  a  Wife  "—Novices 
and  Old  Actors — A  Hornet's  Nest  —Mr.  MACREADY  and  his  Imitators — A 
Family  Picture, .  .  1 

II 

ACCOMPLISHMENTS  for  the  Stage — Genius,  Talent — EDMUND  KEAN — Charac 
teristics  of  his  Acting — COOKE— Kean's  Points — Anecdote— An  Epitaph 
•with  a  Sting  in  it— Mrs.  SIDDONS— Her  First  Dramatic  Effort— MY  FA 
THER— College  Plays— His  Career-  The  Castle  Spectre— Children  of  Ac 
tors — A  Remark  of  the  late  I.  BRAHAM — A  Novice's  Trials — The  Stage 
as  a  Profession— A  Night's  Work, 19 

III. 

THEATRE  ROYAL,  Liverpool — A  Bald  Incident — Miss  FATTCIT — RISTORI  and 
EACHEL  contrasted— ELLEN  TREE—"  Love "  at  Covent  Garden— The 
Study  of  a  Character — A  Word  to  Young  Actors— The  Prompter — 2fi- 
mium  ne  crede  !— BARRY  of  Dublin—  Anecdotes, 38 

IV. 

THE  GREEN-EOOM  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre — Its  Regulations — Queen's 
Visits — DOLLY  FITZ — Mrs.  JORDAN  and  the  Duke  of  Clarence — Reading 
of  New  Plays— LEIGH  HUNT— SHERIDAN  KNOWLES— Casting  a  New  Play 
—The  Plausible  Manager, 50 


M81133 


IV  CONTENTS. 

V. 

PAGB 

A  reminiscence  of  Mr.  C.  KEMBLE — A  lesson  in  Mercutio — Gibber's  "Dou 
ble  Gallant " — Cast — Milton's  Comus— Clandestine  Marriage,  at  Covent 
Garden— A  great  cast  with  little  cry  about  it— Mr.  FARREN— A  stage 
trick — tit-for-tat — Mrs.  GLOVER — Mrs  HUMBY— Mrs.  OKGER — A  tria- 
logue — Mrs.  NISBETT  (Lady  Boothby) — Rival  Beauties — A  scene  in  the 
Green-Room—Miss  FOOTB  (Countess  of  Harrington)— J.  P.  HABLEY— 
Miss  F the  Columbine— Noblesse  de  Theatre,  ....  CO 

VI. 

PROVINCIAL  ENGAGEMENTS,  1840 — Starring  it  in  England — Incidents — A  one- 
armed  Tragedian — New  Readings — Hamlet — Senna  versus  Seneca — A 
grave-scene — Yorick's  Skull  ? — Tableau  extraordinary — A  queer  Visitor 
— A  queer  Manager — A  strolling  Company — Scaflfolders — A  succinct  set 
tlement—A  fortnight  at  Liverpool— Mr.  ELTON, 95 

VII. 

RE-ENGAGED  at  Covent  Garden,  1841-'2— Old  Maids— A  Fencing  Match— 
ANGELO  maitre  d'armes — KNOWLES'S  Last  Play — His  Preaching  against 
the  Stage— Metrical  jeu  tfesprit— Miss  ADELAIDE  KEMBLE— Her  Nor- 
ma— The  Irish  Heiress— Half  Salaries— List  of  the  Company— The  Unit 
ed  States  in  Perspective — Farewell  at  Liverpool — Miss  J.  BENNETT — 
Mrs.  B ARROW— G.  V.  BROOKE— Decay  of  the  Liverpool  Theatre— Meliora 
Speramus — Hey  for  America  I 113 

VIII. 

CORALIE  WALTON;  the  Country  Actress:    An  Episode,  from  Real  Life. 
Chapter  I.    Mystery,  126 


IX. 

COBALIB  WALTON.    Chapter  II.    Love— The  Amateur, 139 

X. 

COEALIE  WALTON.    Chapter  III.    Madness, 164 

XL 

COBALIB  WALTON.    Chapter  IV.    Despair, 162 

XII. 

THE  UNITED  STATES— My  First  Season— Early  Aspirations— The  Passage- 
Sails  versus  Paddles— Philosophy  at  Sea— Arrival  in  New  York— Impres- 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

sions— "How  do  you  like  our  Country?" — Prejudice — A  few  words  on  • 
Hotels — New  York,  and  Clarendon — Wines — Native  and  Foreign — The 
Park  Theatre— Mr.  SIMPSON— A  Dialogue  with  him— My  First  Appear 
ance — The  Company — Mr.  PLACIDE — Dreadful  state  of  Theatricals — 
Philadelphia — Walnut  Street  Theatre — CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN— Elvira, 
Nancy  Sykes,  Meg  Merrilies — Anecdote  of,  and  characteristic  note  from 
her — Her  first  appearance  in  London — Bowery  Theatre — Mr.  FORREST 
— His  Metamora — Boston — Tremont  Theatre — Dramatic  taste  there,  .  179 

XIII. 

SOUTHERN  ENGAGEMENTS — New  Orleans — At  Sea — A  Temperance  Man — St. 
Charles  Hotel — Amusements,  Balls,  Duels,  &c. — A  SOCIETY  BALL — Quad 
roon  Almacks— Dingy  Dowagers— Contrasts  in  Life— New  St.  Charles 
Theatre— An  Incident— Mr.  Hackett:  his  Richard  III.— MOBILE— New 
American  Theatre,  N.  O.— Attempt  at  a  Row— A  Deputation— Smoke 
without  Fire — BALTIMORE— MARYLAND  q  FAIRYLAND?— PHILADELPHIA: 
Wralnut  St. — CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN'S  Borneo — Return  to  Park  Theatre — 
Summary— HOME, 203 

XIV. 

MISCELLANEOUS  LEAVES— United  States,  1843  to  1852-'3— Preliminary— Mr. 
MACREADY — My  First  Meeting  with  him — Performances  with  him — His 
Characteristics — L'etat  c'est  moi ! — The  Stage,  that's  I ! — Incidents — Hen 
ry  IV.— Werner— Argumentum  ad  hominem— Astor  Place  Opera  House 
— Restorations — Shakspere — Mutilation  of  School  for  Scandal— Resume 
— His  Retirement — Valeat !— Mr.  BOOTH — Scene  with  him  in  Julius  Cae 
sar,  at  the  Park  Theatre— Mr.  SIMPSON,  the  Manager— KING  JOHN,  with 
the  KEANS  at  the  Park— Broadway  Theatre— J.  R.  ANDERSON— Sopho- 
cM  ANTIGONE,  with  Mendelssohn's  Music,  at  Palmo's  Opera  House- 
Grotesque  Appearance  of  the  Chorus  of  Greek  Sages— Mrs.  C.  N.  SIN 
CLAIR  (Mrs.  Forrest)— Her  Z>e'6#$— Engagements  with  her,  and  Accounts 
—Result, 220 

XV. 

rtETURN  to  England,  1853— Revival  of  Henry  V.  at  Liverpool— A  Word 
on  Shaksperean  Revivals — Incident — Manchester  Theatre  Royal — An 
Equestrian  Excursion — How  to  do  it — Its  Pleasures— Amateur  Hosts — 
Engaged  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  London — Buckstone  on  Shakspere 
—A  German  Hamlet— Horseback  Trip  to  St.  Leonard's— The  Isle  of 
Wight — An  Excursion  mapped  out — Sandrock  Hotel — Victoria  Claret — 
A  Modern  Cleopatra, 251 

XVI. 

REAPPEARANCE  in  London,  after  Eleven  Years1  Absence— 1853-'5— Hamlet 
at  the  Haymarket  Theatre— The  Company— Remarks  on  Hamlet— Ham- 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

let's  age — A  Leading  Actress  of  the  Present  Day— A  New  Play — Siffte — 
The  Duchess  Eleanour — Town  and  Country — London  Assurance— Lady 
Gay  a  Mis»— New  Comedy,  "  Knights  of  the  Round  Table"— Scene  from 
it— Spanish  Dancers — DOUGLAS  JKBEOLD — Doath  of  Mrs.  FITZWILLIAM — 
An  Ingenious  Literary  Trick — "  Foreign  Airs  and  Native  Graces" — Result 
Of  Experience  at  the  Hayinarket— St.  James'  Theatre — "King's  Rival" 
—Mrs.  SEYMOCB'S  Nell  Gwynne— The  Garrick  Club— A  Dinner  at  the 
Mansion  House— Mr.  BUCUANAN  on  British  Institutions — Bath — Paris 
— Return  to  the  United  States — Marriage — A  Reminiscence  of  the  Hon. 
RCFUS  CHOATE, 265 

XVII. 

HONEY-MOON  Fare — An  Original  Tavern-keeper — A  Week  at  the  Boston 
Theatre— Receipts— Managers  never  satisfied— Visit  to  England  with 
Wife— Stratford-on- A  von— Washington  Irving— Geoffrey  Crayon— Fami 
ly-Meeting — Rochester,  Kent — A  Sunset  Scene — Country  Theatricals — 
Juliet's  Balcony — Love  under  Difficulties  —  Downfall  of  the  House  of 
Capulet— Dublin— The  City  and  Environs— The  Theatre— The  Audience 
and  their  Love  of  Fun— Anecdotes— My  Wife's  Reception— Edinburgh— 
The  Old  and  New  City —Theatre— Macbeth -A  bona  fide  Re-call— A 
Glasgow  Audience  and  Manager — Decay  of  Theatrical  Taste  in  Scotland 
— Return  to  America, 804 

XVIII. 

SUMMING-UP— Advice  to  the  Stage-struck— A  View  of  the  Present  Condi 
tion  of  the  Stage— The  Theatre  and  its  Purposes— Farewell,  .  .  .830 


.   LEAVES 

FROM   AN   AOTOE'S   NOTE-BOOK. 


I. 


MT  DEErT— Covent  Garden  Theatre— MADAME  VESTBIS— CHARLES  MATHEWS— 
Law  versus  Stage—"  Eule  a  Wife  and  have  a  Wife  "—Novices  and  Old  Actors 
—A  Hornet's  Nest— Mr.  MACBEADY  and  his  Imitators— A  Family  Picture. 

SOME  men,  under  trouble,  disappointment,  or  rack  of 
mind,  take  to  drinking ;  a  base  resource  !  Some  lull 
their  griefs  by  opium, — just  as  bad  a  one  !  Some  seek 
distraction  and  oblivion  in  the  excitement  of  the 
gaming  table, — a  worse  one  still !  Some  blow  their 
brains  out, — the  worst  of  all !  I  took  to  the  stage ; 
it  saved  me  from  any,  and  all  of  the  others. 

The  necessity  of  bending  all  my  energies  to  a  new 
study  and  a  new  pursuit ;  the  excitement  of  a  new 
struggle  in  a  new  field,  with  new  difficulties,  new 
motives,  new  associations,  caused  a  diversion  of  my 
thoughts,  and,  by  degrees,  restored  my  mind  to  a 
1 


2  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

healthy  tone.     The  remedy  was,  indeed,  a  desperate 
one ;  but,  as  Hotspur  says, 

"  Out  of  that  nettle,  danger,  I  plucked  this  flower,  safety." 

No  matter  what  my  troubles  were,  (they  were  not 
pecuniary  difficulties  ;  they  were  nearer  the  heart 
than  the  pocket;)  they  were  sufficient  to  unhinge  my 
mind,  and  to  render  me  incapable  of  pursuing  my 
then  profession  of  the  law  with  undivided  attention. 
So  I  went  upon  the  stage  ;  diverted  my  thoughts  into 
a  fresh  channel;  and,  I  do  verily  believe,  by  that 
means,  saved  myself  from  insanity — perhaps  from  a 
drunkard's  fate. 

I  vow  I  had  no  particular  predilection  for  the 
stage'  My.fatjh&r.was  an  actor,  it  is  true,  and  an  emi 
nent  and  prosperous  ,one  ;  but  I  was  anything  but 
st&g3-rttrjck.  I  ;had  b£en  carefully  educated  to  the 
law,  and  had  fortunately  attained,  at  a  very  early  age, 
a  secure  position,  and  a  handsome  income  in  that  pro 
fession.  If  there  had  been  a  war  at  the  time,  or  any 
chance  of  one,  I  might  probably  have  entered  the 
army,  as  a  change  and  a  diversion ;  I  recollect  debat 
ing  such  a  step  in  my  mind  at  Church  one  Sunday, 
(by  way  of  relief  to  a  very  dull  sermon,)  and  seriously 
thinking  of  enlisting  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  (I  had 
great  example  for  it ;  Coleridge  did  so,  you  know  :) 
but  there  was  no  Italy  on  fire  for  liberty  yet,  no 
Crimean  war,  and  little  chance  of  distinction  or  pre 
ferment  by  fighting :  so,  instead  of  entering  a  cavalry 
corps,  I  entered  myself  in  MADAME  YESTRIS'S  corps 
dramatique,  then  being  organized  for  active  service 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  London. 


CHAKLES   MATHEWS.  3 

YESTRIS  had  previously  managed  with  great  suc 
cess  the  little  Olympic  Theatre  in  AVyche  Street, 
— quite  a  band-box  of  a  place — where  CHARLES 
MATHEWS  made  his  debut.  Charles  was  brought  up 
an  architect,  and  held  the  situation  of  surveyor  to  the 
parish  of  Bow  ;  but  Bow-bells  had  no  music  in  his 
ears ;  and,  as  he  was  far  from  being  "  monarch  of  all 
he  surveyed,"  lie  took  to  the  stage,  came  out  at  the 
Olympic,  under  the  wing  of  old  LISTON,  and  yoked 
his  fortunes,  in  a  lover's  knot,  with  those  of  "  the 
widow."  (  Vestris  was  the  widow  of  Yestris  the  French 
dancer, — Yestris  fits,  of  course;  her  father  was  an 
Italian,  Bartolozzi,  a  sculptor.)  PRICE,  the  old  Park 
Theatre  manager,  had  them — Yestris  and  Mathews 
I  mean — married,  as  a  necessary,  preliminary  sort  of 
purification  before  their  being  admitted  to  the  rarified 
atmosphere  of  ISTew  York  ;  and,  after  that  ceremony, 
brought  them  out, 

"  In  linked  sweetness," 

to  this  country.  Here,  from  a  variety  of  causes,  they 
failed,  returned  to  England  in  a  huff,  and  became 
lessees  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  ;  that  is,  Charles 
Mathews,  lessee,  Madame  Yestris,  manager  /  for,  in 
management,  Charley  was  a  cipher  by  the  side  of 

"  Her  humorous  ladyship," 

whose  temper  (comme  son  haleine,  selon  ce  que  Ton 
disait)  was  none  of  the  sweetest,  but  whose  taste, 
tact,  and  judgment  were  almost  equal  to  her  fickleness, 
luxury,  and  extravagance. 


4  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

She  was,  when  Mathews  married  her  (183T-8) 
already  in  the  "  sere,"  with  a  good  deal  of  the  "yellow 
leaf"  visible  ;  that  is,  when  the  llanc  and  rouge  were 
off,  and  allowed 

"  The  native  hue  and  color  " 

of  her  cheeks  to  be  seen.  She  had  run  through  a 
great  variety  of  fortunes ;  principally  those  of  foolish 
young  lords,  fast  young  guardsmen,  and  some  hoary 
old  sinners ;  she  was  the  Ninon  de  VEnclos  of  her 
day,  less  the  piquancy  and  delicatesse  d'esprit  of  the 
French  Lais  /  she  was  accomplished,  though  ignorant 
(a  duplex  "  effect  defective  "  by  no  means  uncommon 
on  the  stage,  or  off  it  either) ;  she  had  commenced  her 
theatrical  career  with  eclat,  as  an  Italian  opera-singer ; 
she  had  afterwards  played  at  Paris  in  French  comedy  ; 
and  had  latterly,  for  many  years,  been  a  standing 
favorite  in  the  English  theatres,  in  characters  requir 
ing  a  certain  espieglerie^  nearly  allied  to  effrontery, 
together  with  fair  musical  capabilities, — the  souorette 
chantante,  in  fine.  Her  speciality  had  been  what  are 
technically  called  breeches  parts,  from  their  requiring 
a  lady  to  invest  herself  in  mannish  integuments.  Peg 
Woffington,  a  century  before,  had  been  great  in  these 
assumptions,  and  her  Sir  Harry  Wildair  turned  the 
heads  of  the  ~beaux,  by  its  easy  abandon,  and  graceful 
etourderie,  to  say  nothing  of  the  display  of  her  tour- 
nure,  which  completed  the  witchery. 

Now,  Vestris  was  admirably  gifted,  cut  out,  and 
framed  to  shine  en  petit  maitre  ;  she  was  remarkable 
for  the  symmetry  of  her  limbs,  especially  of  those 
principally  called  on  to  fill  these  parts;  she  had  a 


MADAME    VESTEIS.  5 

fearless  off-hand  manner,  and  a  fine  mezzo  soprano 
voice,  the  full  contralto  notes  of  which  did  her  good 
service  in  "  Don  Giovanni "  (a  sort  of  burlesque 
on  the  opera),  Captain  Mackheath,  Carlos  in  the 
" Duenna,"  Apollo  in  "Midas,"  and  other  epicenes. 
For  purity  of  intonation  and  simple  truth  of  expres 
sion,  her  singing  of 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed," 
in  the  "  Duenna,"  and 

"  In  infancy  our  hopes  and  fears," 

in  "  Artaxerxes,"  have  seldom,  if  ever,  been  surpassed. 
She  was  the  best  soubrette  chantante  of  her  day  ;  self- 
possession,  archness,  grace,  coqueterie,  seemed  natural 
to  her;  these,  with  her  charming  voice,  excellent 
taste  in  music,  fine  eyes,  and  exquisite  form,  made  her 
the  most  fascinating  and  (joined  to  her  esprit  (Tin- 
trigue)  the  most  dangerous  actress  of  her  time.  Be 
lieve  it,  reader,  no  actress  that  we  have  now,  can  give 
you  an  idea  of  the  attractions,  the  fascinations,  the 
witcheries  of  Madame  Vestris  in  the  heyday  of  her 
charms. 

That  day,  with  its  triumphs,  its  intrigues,  its  con 
quests,  its  "  Handsome  Jacks,"  its  "  Lord  Edwards," 
and  u  Honorable  Horatios,"  was  nearly  past ;  the 
setting  sun  was  tinging  it  with  its  long  slanting 
beams,  and  charms  and  popularity  were  fast  fading 
away.  Changing  the  name  of  Chloris  to  Vestris, 
the  lines  of  the  old  French  poet,  Chaulieu,  exactly 
fitted  her : 


6  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

h  Chloris  par  mille  cosmetiques, 
Veut  couvrir  ses  rides  antiques, 
Et  resusciter  ses  attraits ; 
Mais  c'est  en  vain  qu'elle  s'abuse, 
Ni  le  carmin,  ni  la  ceruse 
Ne  la  rejeuniront  jamais !" 

Something  was  necessary  for,  at  least,  a  temporary 
revival ;  and  her  last  throw  on  the  dice  was  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  with  a  husband  to  bear  the  liabilities. 
This  last,  by  the  bye,  was  an  important  Rider  to  the 
Mil;  for  it  had,  not  unfrequently,  happened  to  her, 
in  her  protracted  widowhood,  to  be  suddenly  arrested, 
of  an  evening,  on  suspicion  of  debt,  on  her  way  to  the 
theatre.  Now  this  was  doubly  inconvenient,  for  it 
also  arrested  the  performance  for  the  night ;  until  the 
assistance  of  "a  friend,"  or  the  pledge  of  her  diamonds 
released  her  from  Moses  Levi,  or  Abraham  Isaacs, 
representatives  of  the  sheriff  of  Middlesex  in  his 
executive  capacity.  Bat  now,  she  had  one  on  whom 
she  could  repose  the  burthen  of  her  responsibilities — 
one  compelled  to  bear  them,  too — and  so  she  could 
pursue  the  even  tenor  of  her  way  from  Ealburn  to 
Covent  Garden,  regardless,  like  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan, 
of  "  a  whole  legion  of  Alguazils ;"  or,  what  is  more 
terrible  to  modern  Signoras  and  Signors,  of  sheriffs' 
officers  armed  with  Ca.  Sas.  Poor  Eliza  Lucy  ! — as 
one  of  her  old  flames,  a  veteran  himself,  always  calls 
her, — she  died  at  a  respectable  old  age,  after  much 
suffering.  Requiescat  in  pace  ! 

But  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  she  was 
Manageress  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  ;  Lessee,  Mr. 
Charles  Mathews.  He,  about  thirty-five,  she,  about 


STAGE   VERSUS   LAW.  7 

forty-three  years  of  age  ;  and  they  were  just  on  the 
point  of  commencing  their  first  season  at  the  great 
National  Theatre,  which  has  since  been  converted 
into  an  Italian  Opera-House.  It  was  the  Theatre  which 
had  been  the  scene  of  the  triumphs  of  John  Kemble 
and  Mrs.  Siddons.  My  father  made  his  first  entree 
on  the  London  Stage  (1819)  in  the  same  Theatre ; 
Mr.  Macready  also  commenced  his  London  career 
there,  (1816.)  and  had  conducted  the  Theatre  with 
great  eclat  as  its  Lessee  and  Manager,  the  preceding 
season. 

As  for  myself,  as  I  have  said,  I  was  brought  up  to 
the  law,  and  very  shortly  after  my  admission  to  prac 
tice,  I  had  obtained,  and  now  held  the  important  and 
lucrative  office  of  "Solicitor  to  the  Trustees  of  the 
Liverpool  Docks,- '  the  second  legal  office  in  the  gift  of 
the  corporation  of  the  borough.  The  highest  office, 
the  "  Town  Clerkship  "  (Attorney  to  the  Corporation) 
was  in  the  hands  of  a  very  able  lawyer,  who,  poor 
fellow !  at  the  maturity  of  his  years  and  reputation, 
fell  into  the  first  category  I  have  mentioned  at  the 
beginning  of  this  chapter,  and,  fatally  for  his  health, 
drank  deeply  of  the  cup  that  "  steals  away  the 
brains ;"  his  Deputy,  a  young  man  of  steady  habits 
and  good  promise,  became,  probably  from  over- work 
and  anxiety,  the  inmate  of  a  lunatic  asylum.  My 
exit  from  legal  toils  was,  at  least,  happier  than  either 
of  these. 

I  made  my  resolution  one  sleepless  night ;  rose 
early,  took  the  express  train  to  London,  called  on 
Madame '  Vestris,  was  graciously  received,  stated  my 
wishes,  and  after  expressions  of  astonishment  on  her 


8  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

part,  and  a  consultation  with  Mr.  George  Bartley, 
her  acting  Manager,  I  was  duly  engaged  for  the  sea 
son  about  to  commence,  at  a  salary  of  £8  ($40)  per 
week,  and  the  character  was  settled  in  which  I  was  to 
dtbtiter,  three  weeks  after  that  day.  The  whole  aifair 
did  not  take  half  an  hour  to  arrange :  with  almost 
any  one  of  our  present  theatrical  managers  it  would 
have  occupied  a  fortnight.  Slow  coaches !  myste 
rious  diplomatists  about  an  egg-shell ! 

You  must  understand  that  I  was  utterly  unpre 
pared  in  any  part ;  I  had  not  studied  any :  1  had  only 
made  up  my  mind  to  quit  Blackstone,  Coke,  Sugden, 
Chitty  et  hoc  genus  omne,  for  Shakspere,  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  and  the  worthies  of  the  Drama.  I  had  seen 
a  good  many  plays,  and  the  performances  of  most  of 
the  principal  actors  of  the  day.  I  had  seen  old  Kean 
as  a  boy,  and  sat  on  the  knees  of  John  Kemble,  as  a 
baby ;  but  acting  is  not  to  be  acquired  by  contact  or 
by  imposition  of  hands  ;  nor  can  one  (as  Jacques  says 
of  melancholy)  "suck  in  'genius'  as  a  weazle  sucks 
eggs."  Some  preparation  was  necessary  :  for  I  was, 
practically,  as  complete  a  novice  as  if  my  father  had 
been  a  parson ;  he  had  never  given  me  an  hour's  in 
struction  in  elocution,  in  his  life  ;  and  the  stage  was 
forbidden  ground  to  my  steps.  I  had  little  more  than 
a  fortnight's  time  to  prepare  myself  for  the  ordeal  of 
a  first  appearance  before  a  London  audience  at  the 
principal  Metropolitan  Theatre, — an  ordeal  not  with 
out  terrors  to  an  old  stager ;  how  awful  then  to  a 
novice ! 

I  hurried  back  to  Liverpool  by  Express,  resigned 
my  public  situation,  sold  off  my  movables,  broke  up 


RULE    A   WIFE   AND    HAVE    A    WIFE.  9 

my  establishment,  and  set  about  studying  my  part, — 
LEON,  in  Beaumont  &  Fletcher's  Comedy  of  "  Rule  a 
"Wife  and  have  a  Wife."  This  Comedy  had  been  laid 
on  the  shelf  for  several  years,  and  justly  so ;  for  the 
nature  of  the  plot  and  the  license  of  the  language  are 
little  adapted  to  modern  taste  and  refinement.  Look 
ing  back,  I  have  frequently  regretted  that  it  was  re 
produced  on  my  account ;  but  its  long  absence  from 
the  London  stage  was  the  motive  for  its  revival; 
arid  though  the  same  cause  put  me  under  the  disad 
vantage  of  never  having  seen  it  played  myself,  yet  I 
thought  that  more  than  counterbalanced  by  my  es 
caping  comparison  with  living  actors  of  eminence — a 
comparison  always  dangerous,  oftentimes  fatal  to  a 
young  aspirant.  Leon  had  been  a  great  character 
with  John  Kemble  and  the  elder  Kean ;  they  had 
departed  from  the  scene  years  since,  and  it  was  prob 
able  that  the  beauties  and  points  of  their  performance 
did  not  live  in  the  general  memory ;  so  Leon  was 
fixed  upon  as  my  coup  d'essai. 

Great  was  the  wonder  of  the  quid-nuncs  of  Liver 
pool,  on  my  resignation  of  my  public  office,  for  which 
on  the  instant,  a  hundred  candidates  appeared.  I 
kept  my  own  secret,  nor  was  the  riddle  explained 
till  the  London  Times  announced  my  coming  debut 
at  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Then  the  murder  was 
out ;  and  divers  were  the  comments  and  prophecies 

"  In  accents  terrible, 
Of  dire  combustion  and  confused  events," 

to  attach  themselves  to  me  henceforth  and  forever. 


10  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

The  mildest  judgment  passed  on  me  was  that  I  was 
mad  ;  the  gentlest  sentence,  that  I  was  ruined.  But, 
thank  -heaven !  I  have  never  yet  worn  a  straight 
jacket,  and  I  have  continued  to  "hold  my  own"  up 
to  the  present  writing,  June,  1859. 

"Well,  I  made  my  first  appearance  at  Covent  Gar 
den  Theatre  on  Monday,  14th  October,  1839;  (20 
years  ago ! 

Eheu !  fugaces  Posthume,  Posthume 
Labuntur  anni !) 

and  had  the  satisfaction  of  disappointing  friends  and 
enemies  by  obtaining  a  unanimous  verdict  of  success 
from  press  and  public.  At  one  of  my  rehearsals,  I 
well  recollect  Mrs.  GLOVER — the  last  representative 
of  that  great  school  of  acting  in  which  she  had  been 
born  and  brought  up,  a  great  Estifania  too  in  her 
day — being  present ;  she  gave  me  much  encourage 
ment,  saying  aloud  in  her  Tyrusque,  semi-Johnsonian 
infallibility  of  style, — "  Well,  he's  sure  to  be  heard, 
at  all  events ;  and  has  plenty  of  confidence  ;  voice 
enough,  and  face  enough;  he'll  do!" 

I  confess  I  was  not  overwhelmed  with  terror  at 
appearing  before  the  much-dreaded  tribunal  of  a 
London  audience,  though  it  was  my  first  essay  in 
arms,  and  much  depended  on  the  result.  I  made,  I 
remember,  a  very  hearty  dinner  about  three  o'clock, 
went  calmly  down  to  the  Theatre  at  six,  dressed,  and 
"  made  up  "  my  face  in  quite  a  business-like  manner, 
(I  wore,  by  the  bye,  for  my  first  dress  the  very  same 
costume  that  John  Kemble  had  worn  for  the  part ; 
think  of  that  for  a  novice  I  "  Shade  of  Kemble,"  I 


A    FIRST    APPEARANCE.  11 

internally  exclaimed,  "  let  thy  mantle  fall  on  me  !") 
and  entered  the  Green-Room  cool  and  self-possessed. 
There  was  Charles  Mathews,  dressed  for  Michael  Pe 
rez,  and  also  Madame  Yestris.  On  my  replying  to 
their  inquiries  that  I  felt  perfectly  at  ease,  Mathews, 
placing  his  hand  on  my  left  breast,  said, — "Let's 
see;  let's  feel!"  He  kept  his  hand  there  a  moment, 
then  withdrawing  it,  exclaimed  to  Vestris, — "By  Jove, 
Liz,  its  as  calm  as  a  child's !  " 

"  Now,  then,"   said  I,   u  let  me   feel   how  yours 
goes." 

"  O  no !  "  said  he,  "  I'm  as  nervous  as  I  can  be !  " 
And  so  he  was.  It  was  his  first  time  of  playing  the 
Copper  Captain,  and  he  was  naturally  anxious  about 
his  success  in  a  style  of  character  beyond  his  usual 
flight.  His  nervousness  was  the  result  of  experience, 
bringing  a  sense  of  responsibility ;  my  coolness,  of 
^experience : 

"  Fools  rush  in  where  angels,"  &c., 

And  I  can  safely  say  that  I  do  not  recollect  ever  to 
have  walked  on  to  the  stage  on  any  important  occa 
sion  during  my  subsequent  career,  with  as  perfect  a 
self-possession  as  on  that  night  of  my  first  attempt. 
I  believe  this  is  not  unfrequently  the  case,  too.  The 
novice  is  not  fully  conscious  of  the  difficulties  of  the 
task  that  he  has  undertaken,  and  of  the  thousand  and 
one  chances  that  may  balk  his  success  ;  he  is,  conse 
quently,  if  his  nerves  are  good,  frequently  self-pos 
sessed  and  tolerably  calm.  The  old  actor,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  has  made  a  name,  has  his  reputation  to  sup 
port,  is  conscious  of  the  responsibility,  and  anxious  for 


12  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  result,  so  that  he  is  generally  what  is  called  nervous 
on  the  first  night  of  a  new  play,  or  a  new  part.  The 
great  Comedian  WILLIAM  FAKREN,  was  proverbially 
so,  to  such  an  extent,  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years'  expe 
rience  and  continued  practice  on  the  stage,  that  au 
thors  trembled  with  apprehension  on  their  "first 
nights,"  lest  Farren  should  unexpectedly  break  down 
in  the  words  of  his  part.  I  once,  myself,  prompted 
him  on  the  stage,  through  a  whole  scene  in  Bourci- 
cault's  Comedy  of  West  End,  (Irish  Heiress,)  the 
words  escaping  his  memory  from  nervousness,  and  I 
luckily  having  retained  them  from  the  repeated  re 
hearsals,  we  had  had  of  the  play.  He  thanked  me 
at  the  end  of  the  scene,  and  complimented  me  on  my 
self-possession.  Mr.  MACREADY  was  always  nervous. 
The  least  casualty  would  throw  him  out.  He  said  to 
me  once : 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  on  the  days 
in  which  I  act  at  night,  I  can  think  of  nothing  else ;" 
and  it  was  so.  On  those  days  he  allowed  himself  no 
pleasure,  no  distraction ;  nothing  that  could  excite 
him  or  divert  him  from  the  business  of  the  night. 

To  resume  :— The  cast  of  the  play  "  Eule  a  "Wife, 
&c.,"  was  a  very  good  one  ;  though,  of  course,  the 
critics, 

"  laudatores  temporis  acti " 

called  it  weak,  and  groaned  over  "  the  lights  of  other 
days."  Still,  (setting  my  own  untried  name  out  of  the 
question),  I  think  a  cast  that  embraced  the  names  of 
George  Bartley,  Charles  Mathews,  Frank  Mathewsi 
Meadows,  Diddear,  Mrs.  JSTisbett  (poor  Nisbett ! 


CRITICISM.  13 

"Where  be  your  gibes  now,  your  gambols," ("songs "she  had 
none,) "your  flashes  of  merriment  that  were  wont  to  set  the  Thea 
tre  in  a  roar?" 


and  Mrs.  Brougham,  then  in  full  bloom, — I  say  such  a 
cast  was  not  to  be  sneezed  at !  It  is  needless  to  add 
that,  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  with  Madame  Yestris 
at  the  helm,  the  mise  en  scene  was  perfect. 

As  to  the  merits  of  the  performance  generally, 
the  papers  of  the  next  day  exhibited  their  wonted 
acumen,  and  accustomed  diversity  of  opinion  :  one 
praising  to  the  echo  what  the  other  denounced,  and 
leaving  the  inquiring  reader,  as  usual,  in  a  happy 
state  of  bewilderment  as  to  whether  the  actors  were 
the  greatest  idiots,  or  the  greatest  geniuses  that  the 
stage  had  ever  produced  !  I  know  not  whether  it  is  a 
source  of  greater  consolation  or  confusion  to  the  mind 
of  an  artiste  of  any  pretensions,  to  observe  that  if  he 
extract  passages  of  praise  only,  from  the  different 
journals,  he  may  establish  himself,  by  the  accretion 
of  these  culled  selections,  perfect  in  every  point, 
"  factus  ad  ungem," — a  piece  of  Carrara  marble,  free 
from  bias,  flaw,  or  blemish  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  he  collect  the  censure  in  detail,  he  may  find  himself 
a  conglomerate  incarnation  of  faults,  defects,  over- 
doings,  underdoings,  misfeasances  and  malfeasances. 

For  myself,  looking  back  to  that  my  "maiden 
effort,"  I  willingly  acknowledge  the  extreme  indul 
gence  of  the  London  press  in  my  regard.  Times, 
Herald,  Post,  Chronicle,  Sun,  all  spoke  most  favora 
bly  of  my  debut,  and  all  were  very  lenient  to  the  faults 
and  deficiencies  inseparable  from  a  first  attempt. 


14  AN  ACTOK'S  .NOTE-BOOK. 

There  was  a  great  house :  the  box-price  at  that  time 
was  seven  shillings  sterling  ($1  75),  and  the  prices  of 
other  parts  of  the  house  were  in  proportion.  The 
audiences  were  really  worth  playing  to,  representing 
the  rank,  taste  and  elegance  of  the  metropolis.  I  re 
ceived  frequent  applause,  and  had  the  honor  of  a 
loud  and  prolonged  "  call "  (calls  were  not  so  dirt- 
common  then  as  now !)  at  the  close  of  the  perform 
ance,  which  was  announced  for  repetition  by  Mr. 
Bartley,  the  stage  manager,  for  the  next  night ;  and  it 
was  repeated  on  alternate  evenings  for  a  fortnight. 

The  curtain  had  barely  touched  the  ground,  when 
that  hearty  creature,  Mrs.  Nisbett,  the  queen  of  com 
edy,  Thalia  in  her  most  frolic  mood,  turned  to  me 
with  one  of  her  most  radiant  smiles,  and  shook  me 
warmly  by  both  hands,  exclaiming  in  her  off-hand 
way,— 

"  You're  all  right !  "  adding,  "  You've  got  into  a 
hornet's  nest  though  !  " — a  pleasant  illustration  of  her 
idea  of  "  the  whips  and  spurns  "  I  had  to  look  for 
ward  to.  She  meant  to  tell  me,  I  suppose,  that,  like 
a  young  bear,  all  my  troubles  were  to  come  ! 

Madame  Vestris,  who  was  dressed  for  Gertrude  in 
the  after-piece  of  the  Loan  of  a  Lover,  was  my  next 
congratulatrix  ;  and  her  good  opinion  was  most  im 
portant  to  me  in  her  managerial  capacity.  She  was 
good  enough  to  say,  in  that  winning  way  which  she 
knew  so  well  to  assume,  and  in  that  tone  of  affable 
tonhommie,  so  gratifying  in  the  mouth  of  a  king  to  a 
courtier,  a  president  to  a  place-hunter,  or  of  a  man 
ager  to  a  young  actor, — 

"  I  intended  to  have  been  the  first  person  to  wish 


CONGRATULATIONS.  15 

you  joy ;  but  I  see  one  of  my  ladies  has  anticipated 
me ! " 

"  One  of  my  ladies !  "  The  expression  amnsed 
me :  there  was  a  sort  of  burlesque  semi-royalty,  the 
royalty  of  the  Theatre,  about  it;  as  if  Queen  Victoria 
were  speaking  of  one  of  her  dames  d>  honneur  ! 

Nearly  every  person  engaged  in  the  play  "  fol 
lowed  on  the  same  side,"  as  the  lawyers  say,  with  kind 
expressions  and  encouraging  compliments.  Among 
the  rest,  Anderson  (I.  R.,  I  mean)  came  round  to  my 
dressing-room,  having  seen  the  performance  from  the 
front,  and  in  the  frankest  manner  offered  his  congratu 
lations  :  he  was  a  member  of  the  Covent  Garden 
Company. 

Tom  Greene,  as  he  was  called,  a  comedian  whose 
legs  were  said  to  have  twice  made  his  fortune  in  a 
matrimonial  way,  added  to  his  compliments,  that  "  it 
was  refreshing  to  see  an  actor  who  could  spea~k  natur 
ally,  and  did  not  imitate  Macready  !  " 

Altogether,  I  felt  that  I  had  made  a  fair  start,  and 
might  be  well  placed  in  the  long-run. 

Apropos  of  Tom  Greene's  mot^  whether  T  merited 
the  exceptional  euloginm  or  not,  it  is  certain  that,  in 
it,  he  hit  exactly  the  two  great  blots  and  vices  of  the 
acting  of  the  day, — an  unnatural  and  inflated  style  of 
delivery,  and  a  servile  imitation  of  Mr.  Macready. 
It  seemed  to  be  forgotten  that  acting  is,  or  ought  to 
be,  a  copy  of  nature  ;  and  that  the  tragic  style  is  only 
an  elevation  of  the  simply  natural  one ;  just  as  blank 
verse  is  more  elevated  than  ordinary  prose.  But  this 
elevation  is  not  to  be  on  stilts. 


16  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  Speak  the  speech  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you,  trippingly  on 
the  tongue  ;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  our  players  do,  I  had 
as  lief  the  town-crier  had  spoke  my  lines !  " 

Now  the  actors  have  grown  utterly  to  ignore  this 
teaching  of  the  master ;  the  great  rivalry  seems 
to  be  who  shall  mouth  the  most ;  and  the  vulgar  au 
dience,  always  misled  by  extravagance,  and  dazzled 
by  the  showy  and  the  glaring,  mistake  rant  for  force, 
lose  the  sense  of  elegant  simplicity,  and,  on  the  prin 
ciple  of  omne  ignotum  pro  magnijico,  deem  that  man 
the  finest  actor  whose  style  is  the  furthest  removed 
from  nature  and  truth.  Thus  the  worthy  citizen  of 
Leeds  thought  lightly  of  John  Kemble,  "  because  he 
didn't  shout  out  like  Cummings,"  a  local  ranter  ;  and 
Old  Partridge  in  Tom  Jones  preferred  the  man  who 
played  the  king  in  Hamlet,  to  Garrick,  because  Gar- 
rick  "  only  acted  just  as  any  one  would  have  done 
under  the  circumstances ;  while  the  other  spoke  out 
so  loud  that  any  one  could  see  he  was  a  great  actor!  " 
And  this  is  a  fair  satire  on  the  judgment  of  common 
auditors. 

The  slavish  copying  of  Macready  revealed  the 
Theatre's  barrenness  of  original  genius,  and  was,  at 
the  same  time,  a  cause  of  its  decay.  It  was  pushed  to 
such  an  extent  at  Macready 's  own  theatre,  that  the 
very  supers  who  carried  a  banner  adopted  "  the  emi 
nent  tragedian's  "  (such  was  the  epithet  he  particu 
larly  affected  to  monopolize)  rolling  walk ;  and  the 
man  who  delivered  a  message  gave  it  out  with  "  the 
eminent's "  extra-syllabification  of  utterance.  It 
was  really  a  singularly  strange  thing  to  see,  in  the 
tragedy  of  Gisippus,  for  example,  (which  Mr.  Mac- 
ready  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane  with  great  care 


A   FAMILY   PARTY.  17 

and  taste,)  at  one  view,  a  whole  company  surrender 
ing  their  own  identities  with  plastic  subservience,  and 
melting  themselves  down  into  the  Macready  mould. 
There  was  Anderson  in  Fulvins,  who  had  caught  the 
master's  tones,  slides  and  angularities,  sway  and  ac 
tion,  till  they  seemed  almost  his  own  :  the  assumption 
was  so  complete,  that  some  people  would  have  it  he 
was  Mac's  son.  Then  came  Hudson  as  Chrsemes,  who 
had  been  indoctrinated  into  the  same  routine,  only  on 
a  higher  pitch,  with  a  dash  of  flippancy  thrown  in, 
like  an  acid,  to  give  effervescence  to  the  mixture  : 
then  came  Helen  Faucit,  as  Sophronia,  who,  having 
commenced  her  career  under  "  the  eminent's  "  man 
agement,  was  entirely  made  up  of  his  mannerisms, 

"  Subdued  even  to  the  very  quality  of  her  lord," 

redeemed  only  by  the  charms  of  her  own  feminine 
sweetness ; — and  last,  George  Bennett  as  Lycias,  a 
violent  exaggeration  of  every  singularity,  angularity, 
and  formality  of  the  Macreadian  method.  These  were 
the  principal  characters.  Then  came  the  subordinates 
and  supers,  all  formed  011  the  same  model,  crying  in 
the  same  tune,  and  rolling  with  the  same  swinging 
gait !  It  was  a  perfect  Babel  of  confusion  to  the 
mind,  on  an  inverse  principle,  from  a  puzzling  general 
communion  of  identity — one  could  scarcely  separate 
the  interests  and  positions  of  people  who  were  so 
much  alike.  When  they  came  together,  it  was  a 
great  organ,  and  you  had  to  watch  the  mouths  of  the 
speakers  to  see  which  stop  was  playing;  nor  could 
you  always  keep  your  mind  clear  as  to  how  all  these 
people  could  be  engaged  in  plots  and  counterplots  for 


18  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

intermarrying  with,  or  destroying  each  other,  when  it 
seemed  evident  that  they  were  all  members  of  the 
same  family,  and  so  ought  to  be  barred,  by  ties  of  con 
sanguinity,  from  schemes  of  love  or  intrigue. 

Macready's  style  was  an  amalgam  of  John  Kem- 
ble  and  Edmund  Kean.  He  tried  to  blend  the  classic 
art  of  the  one  with  the  impulsive  intensity  of  the 
other;  and  he  overlaid  both  with  an  outer  plating  of 
his  own,  highly  artificial  and  elaborately  formal.  He 
had,  too,  a  mania  for  inoculating  every  one  from  his 
own  system  :  he  was  a  Narcissus  in  love  with  his  own 
form-alities ;  and  he  compelled,  as  far  as  he  could,  all 
within  his  influence  to  pay  him  the  worship  of  imita 
tion.  It  was,  I  believe,  Mrs.  W.  Clifford,  mother-in- 
law  of  Harrison  the  singer,  who  well  rebuked  this  ty 
rannic  egoism.  He  had  been  remorselessly  hammer 
ing  a  speech  into  her  ears  at  rehearsal,  in  his  staccato, 
extra-syllabic  manner,  when  she  very  coolly,  but  very 
decidedly,  told  him  that  she  much  preferred  her  own 
style,  and  declined  to  change  it  for  his  ;  adding,  as  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  expanded  her  hands  and  mouth, 
with  a  strong  crescendo^^vrnphasis  on  the  word  all : — 

"  If  this  goes  on,  we  shall  be  ALL  Macreadys  !  " 
The  "  eminent's  "  battery  was  silenced  at  once. 

Servile  imitation  is  the  grave  of  genius.  To 
be  great,  an  artist  must  study  his  kind,  not  an  indi 
vidual  ;  Nature,  not  any  single  type  of  her.  No 
surer  sign  and  cause  of  decay  could  befall  any  art  and 
its  professors,  than  that  they  should  all  form  them 
selves  on  one  model.  To  put  any  man's  livery  on  our 
mind  is  the  lowest  of  self-abasement,  and  must  surely 
destroy  in  us  all  sense  of  the  true,  the  beautiful,  the 
great. 


GENIUS — TALENT.  19 


II. 


ACCOMPLISHMENTS  for  the  Stage— Genius,  Talent— EDMTJND  KEAN— Characteristics 
of  his  Acting — COOKE— Kean's  Points — Anecdote — An  Epitaph  with  a  Sting  in 
it— Mrs  SIDDONS— Her  First  Dramatic  Effort— MY  FATHER— College  Plays— 
His  Career— The  Castle  Spectre— Children  of  Actors— A  Eemark  of  the  late  !• 
BBAHAM— A  Novice's  Trials— The  Stage  as  a  Profession— A  Night's  "Work. 

HAYING  made  a  successful  debut,  I  now  set  myself 
diligently  to  the  study  of  my  new  profession  ;  got  per 
fect  in  the  text  of,  and  privately  rehearsed, new  parts; 
took  lessons  from  Angelo,  and  also  from  Roland,  in 
fencing ;  put  myself  under  a  drill-sergeant  to  throw 
off  the  legal  bend  of  body  (all  bent  of  mind  for  the 
law  being  gone)  and  to  replace  it  by  a  manly,  erect 
carriage ;  in  fine,  I  conscientiously  devoted  myself  to 
attaining  the  position  of  a  "  well-graced  actor."  And 
believe  me,  reader,  in  spite  of  the  common  cant  about 
"  spontaneous  genius,"  study,  cultivation,  observation, 
reflection,  labor,  are  the  talismans  to  success. 

Genius  is  a  high,  a  special  gift  of  God  ;  but  it  must 
be  wrought  out  by  man.  It  is  the  diamond  in  the 
mine  :  patient  effort  must  bring  it  to  the  sun,  cut  and 
polish  it,  and  shape  it  to  prismatic  perfection,  or  it 
may  sleep  in  its  silent  bed,  unvalued  and  unseen. 
That  genius  has  the  most  power  which  has  the  most 
instruction,  and  is  the  best  regulated ;  which  is  the 


20  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

most  rhythmically  true,  the  most  harmoniously  pro 
portioned.  The  heaven-born  lightning's  flash  was  only 
a  dazzling,  blinding,  destructive  h're,  till  science  con 
ducted,  regulated,  guided  it,  and  made  it  an  instru 
ment  of  far-spreading  light  and  intelligence. 

The  distinguishing  feature,  the  mark  and  the  test 
of  genius  is,  that  it  strikes  out  a  novelty  which  it  es 
tablishes  as  a  truth  ;  that  is,  it  originates,  it  creates  a 
new  truth,  a  new  law,  whether  in  science  or  art. 
Talent  makes  the  best  application  possible,  of  the  in 
ventions  of  genius :  genius  makes  the  discovery,  and 
talent  works  the  patent. 

It  is  not  stage-struck  enthusiasm  that  carries  a 
youth  to  the  top  of  the  tree  :  that  usually  evaporates 
before  its  owner  has  got  half  way  up ;  or  the  weak 
flame  is  put  out  by  the  rubs  and  hard  knocks  it  re 
ceives.  Stage-struck  heroes  are  only  good  at  the 
start :  they  want  bottom  for  a  long  race,  and 

"Like  horses  hot  at  hand 

Make  gallant  show  and  promise  of  their  mettle, 
But  when  they  should  endure  the  bloody  spur 
They  fall  their  crests,  and  like  deceitful  jades 
Sink  in  the  trial." 

The  great  honors  of  the  buskin  (I  do  not  speak  of 
mere  transient,  ephemeral,  spasmodic  eclats  of  suc 
cess)  have  been  won  by  men  who  earnestly  devoted 
themselves  to  the  study  of  their  art,  conscientiously 
and  perseveringly  mastering  its  principles,  sounding 
its  depths,  and  drawing  out  its  harmonies  with  nature 
and  humanity,  and  its  bearing  on  the  philosophy  of 
life  ;  and,  to  that  end,  have  sharpened  and  brightened 


EDMUND   KEAN.  21 

the  special  faculties  with  which  God  may  have  en 
dowed  them, — fancy,  imagination,  sensibility,  mimic 
power,  physical  grace,  and  sympathy  with  the  beauti 
ful  and  the  true.  For  Truth  should  be  the  artist's 
Egeria ;  when  he  ceases  to  seek  her  in  her  silent  cell 
and  secret  groves,  he  will  insensibly  lose  dignity,  self- 
reliance,  conscious  power,  and  become  vapid,  common 
place,  hollow,  superficial ;  he  will  not  be  an  actor,  but 
a  mummer ;  he  will  cease  to  be  an  artist,  he  will  be 
a  quack,  a  mountebank,  a  buffoon. 

I  know  the  name  of  the  elder  (Edmund)  KEAN  will  be 
objected  to  me,  as  an  exception  to  this  rule  of  study  and 
self-accomplishment :  but  he  was  not  so  negligent  of 
form  and  method  as  is  commonly  supposed ;  a  judgment 
to  which  his  irregular  and  reckless  life  seemed  to  give 
countenance.  Kean  (the  Kean,  of  course,  I  mean)  was 
as  nearly  an  actor  born — a  nascitur,  not  a  fit — as  such 
a  thing  is  possible ;  he  was  marked  for  an  actor,  as 
was  Burns  for  a  poet,  and  Opie  for  a  painter,  by 
sovereign  nature  in  the  cradle  ;  and  he  was  gifted  with 
peculiar  aptitudes,  special  powers,  and  a  temperament 
highly  mercurial,  and  sensitive  to  the  extremes  of  pas 
sion,  with  a  face  and  eye  capable  of  the  strongest 
expression  and  of  the  quickest  transitions  of  expres- 
6ion> — all  peculiarly  fiting  him  for  an  actor's  work. 
And  this  natural  fitness  was  seconded  and  strengthened 
by  his  earliest  impressions.  Education,  properly  so 
called,  he  had  none.  He  was  truly  "  to  the  manor 
born  ;  "  he  was  on,  "  and  of?  the  stage  from  infancy,  if 
he  did  not  actually  first  see  light  behind  the  scenes  of 
a  theatre,  (such  light  as  he  could  see  there  !)  and  made 
his  first  recorded  essay  on  the  boards,  as  one  of  a  corps 


22  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

of  young  imps,  or  other  juvenile  snpernaturals,  in 
John  Kemble's  production  of  "  Macbeth  ;  "  on  which 
occasion,  he  carried  his  keen  love  of  mischief  to  the 
extent  of  causing  a  general  downfall  of  his  brother 
imps  by  a  faux  pas,  an  intentional  slip  of  his  own, 
sweeping  the  entire  set  with  him, — as  the  middle  pin, 
well  struck,  will  topple  down  the  whole  ten, — dis 
arranging  the  gravity  of  the  audience,  and  incurring 
his  own  dismissal  by  the  "  classical  tragedian  "  whom 
he  was,  in  after  years,  to  rival  and  supersede. 

Poor  Kean !  I  was  but  a  boy  when  I  saw  him  in 
his  decadence, — worn  out  in  constitution,  not  by  years, 
— but  I  shall  never  forget  him.  I  can  never  hear  of 
Kichard  III,  Othello,  Sir  Giles,  Bertram,  Sir  Edward 
Mortimer,  Shylock,  without  thinking  of  him,  and 
bringing  him  before  my  mind's  eye.  His  style  was 
impulsive,  fitful,  flashing,  abounding  in  quick  transi 
tions  ;  scarcely  giving  you  time  to  think,  but  ravishing 
your  wonder,  and  carrying  you  along  with  his  im 
petuous  rush  and  change  of  expression.  But  this 
seeming  spontaneity  was  not  chance- work  j  much  of 
it,  most  of  it,  was  carefully  premeditated  and  prepared. 
You  might  hear  the  same  soft  flutelike  tones,  the 
same  waves  of  melody,  the  same  cadence,  night  after 
night,  in  his  delivery  of  the  lines  in  Richard, — 

"  But  soft,  my  love  appears :  look  where  she  shines 
Darting  pale  lustre  like  the  silver  moon 
Through  her  dark  veil  of  rainy  sorrow ! " 

So,  his  delivery  of  Othello's  "  Farewell "  ran  on  the 
same  tones  and  semitones,  had  the  same  rests  and 
breaks,  the  same  forte  and  piano,  the  same  crescendo 


EDMUND    KEAN.  23 

and  diminuendo,  night  after  night,  as  if  he  spoke  it 
from  a  musical  score.  And  what  beautiful,  what 
thrilling  music  it  was  !  the  music  of  a  broken  heart — 
the  cry  of  a  despairing  soul ! 

So,  all  his  most  striking  attitudes, — and  he  was 
the  most  picturesque  of  players, — all  his  most  effective 
points,  and  abrupt  transitions  of  voice  and  manner, 
were  reproduced  in  oft-repeated  performances  of  any 
particular  character  ;  so  that  his  admirers  were  ready 
with  their  applause  almost  by  anticipation,  before  the 
well-known  coup  was  made :  it  was  a  certainty ;  it 
lay  on  the  balls  and  he  was  sure  to  make  it.  Did  this 
detract  from  his  genius  ?  No  :  it  proved  that  he  was 
an  artist ;  and  there  is  no  art  without  method  and 
design.  What  then  was  Kean's  peculiar  merit?  in 
what  did  his  genius  especially  assert  itself?  In  inten 
sity,  in  the  power  of  abstraction,  and  of  identifying 
himself  with  a  passion.  In  the  words  of  John  Kemble's 
tribute  of  involuntary  praise, — "he  was  terribly  in 
earnest"  This  was  his  master-quality;  his  next — 
which,  indeed,  followed  from,  if  it  was  not  included 
in  the  former — was  his  natural,  and  unforced,  yet 
striking  delivery  of  simple  phrases,  or  passages  of  a 
familiar,  conversational  style.  In  these  he  threw  away 
the  tragic  stilts  entirely,  and  was  easy,  conversational, 
un-stagey.  Thus,  in  Othello,  his 

"  Were  it  my  cue  to  fight,  I  should  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter,' ' 

always  brought  down  the  house,  from  the  natural,  yet 
pointed  expression,  conversational,  yet  full  of  meaning, 
with  which  he  gave  it;  it  conveyed  a  wonderful 


24 

mixture  of  sarcasm  and  courtesy,  if  such  a  duplex 
effect  can  be  imagined.  So,  in  Shylock,  his 

"I  am  a  Jew!" 
in  the  passage : 

*{  He  hath  disgraced  me,  and  hindered  me  of  half  a  million, 
laughed  at  my  losses,  mocked  at  my  gains,  scorned  my  nation, 
thwarted  my  bargains,  cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies : 
and  what's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew  !  " 

This  was  always  a  cue  for  the  most  intense  applause : 
it  was  the  natural  simplicity  with  which  he  gave  it, 
the^  sort  of  patient  appeal  his  tone  seemed  to  make  to 
your  sympathy  against  undeserved  oppression,  that 
touched  the  heart  and  the  intellect  at  once.  He 
hurried  you  on  through  the  catalogue  of  Antonio's 
atrocities  and  unprovoked  injuries  to  him,  enforcing 
them  with  a  strong  accentuation,  a  rapid  utterance, 
and  a  high  pitch  of  voice  ;  and  when  he  had  reached 
the  climax,  he  came  down  by  a  sudden  transition  to  a 
gentle,  suffering  tone  of  simple  representation  of  his 
oppressor's  manifest  un-reason  and  injustice,  on  the 
words — 

"lama  Jew!"— 

and  the  effect  was  instantaneous. 

I  might  go  on  multiplying  instances  of  this  power 
of  his,  of  sudden  transition  from  the  height  of  passion 
ate  expression,  to  the  familiar  key  of  conversational 
earnestness,  but  it  is  unnecessary.  I  have  said  enough 
to  indicate  its  working.  His  enemies — and  every 
man,  especially  every  public  man,  who  is  worth  any 


COOKE    AND    KEAN.  25 

thing,  has  enemies — his  enemies  called  it  a  trick  ;  it 
was  so ;  but  it  was  a  trick  which  he  gathered  from 
nature,  a  trick  which  he  transplanted  into  art. 

In  intensity  of  passion  I  have  never  seen  any  actor 
or  actress  that  could  approach  him,  except  the  Italian 
RISTORI,  of  whom  I  shall  speak  more  fully  hereafter. 

Kean's  general  method  was  probably  built  on 
COOKE'S  (George  Frederick) ;  surpassing  his  predeces 
sor,  perhaps,  (I  speak  now  only  from  tradition,  of  course 
I  never  saw  Cooke,)  in  fervor  and  poetic  feeling,  as 
well  as  in  grace  of  action.  Those,  however,  who 
remember  the  Richard  III.  of  both  these  actors,  do 
not  hesitate  to  award  to  Cooke  the  palm  for  sustained 
power,  and  intense,  enduring  energy  of  passion ;  Eean 
excelled  him  probably  in  light  and  shade  of  expression. 
Kean  was  a  brilliant  swordsman,  and  his  early  practice 
as  H<wle.quin,  in  which  he  had  excelled, — for  he  had 
begun  at  the  very  lowest  round  of  the  ladder,  and 
climbed  his  way  upwards  till  he  could 

"  build  in  the  cedar's  top 
And  dally  with  the  wind  and  scorn  the  sun," — 

his  early  practice  as  Harlequin  gave  him  extraordinary 
agility  and  grace  of  action,  and  these  physical  accom 
plishments  told  with  amazing  effect  in  the  last  act  of 
Richard  III. ;  his  fight  and  death  were  the  perfection 
of  melodramatic  action. 

Kean's  admiration  of  Cooke  was  well  known  ;  he 
testified  it  by  raising  a  monument,  or  rather  a  tablet, 
to  his  memory  in  St.  Paul's  church -yard  in  this  city, 
(ISTew  York,)  for  Cooke  died  and  was  buried  here,  as 
is  well-known ;  and 
2 


26  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  No  stone  marked  the  spot " 

till  Kean  (the  Kean),  on  his  last  visit  to  this  country, 
about  thirty  years  ago,  erected  one.  This  reminds  me 
of  a  singular  cut — a  "  reply  churlish  " — that  was  given 
to  Kean,  a  very  unfair  wound  to  his  vanity, — but  too 
keen  a  jest  not  to  be  remembered, — on  his  return  to 
England,  in  connection  with  this  monument  to  Cooke. 

Kean  was  at  a  supper-party  of  friends  at  Liver 
pool,  after  having  played  Richard,  that  same  evening, 
to  an  audience  most  enthusiastic  in  their  applause. 
Elated,  and  in  the  very  best  of  spirits,  the  actor  was 
full  of  chat,  and  the  wine  passed  freely  round.  The 
conversation  naturally  turned  on  his  recent  visit  to 
America,  thence  to  Cooke's  death,  the  place  of  his 
burial,  and  the  stone  that  Kean  had  raised  above  his 
head. 

"  All  that  is  wanting,  now,"  said  Kean,  "  is  an 
epitaph,  worthy  of  the  man ;  and  I  should  be  infi 
nitely  obliged  to  any  one  who  would  furnish  me  with 
an  appropriate  line  or  two." 

Several  quotations  from  Shakspere  were  offered 
from  various  points  of  the  table,  but  nothing  that  was 
suggested  seemed  entirely  satisfactory.  Among  the 
company  at  supper  was  an  eccentric,  and  somewhat 
sarcastic  fellow,  named  Taylor,  noted  for  his  clever 
ness  and  ready  wit.  To  him  Kean  at  last  appealed  : 

"  Come,  Taylor,"  said  he,  "  you  can  do  the  thing 
in  a  minute  if  you  like  :  come,  give  us  an  epitaph  for 
George  Frederick  Cooke  !  " 

Taylor,  thus  appealed  to,  smiled,  took  a  pencil, 
wrote  something  on  a  scrap  of  paper — the  back  of  a 
letter — and  passed  it  up  to  Kean  at  the  head  of  the 


A   STINGING   ANECDOTE.  27 

table.  The  tragedian,  smiling  graciously,  in  anticipa 
tion  probably  of  some  well-turned  compliment  to  him 
self  coupled  with  the  name  of  Cooke,  proceeded  to  read 
aloud  what  was  handed  to  him :  thus — 

"  Beneath  this  stone  lies  COOKE  interr'd  j 
And  with  him — 

Kean  paused  with  a  darkening  brow ;  but  he  was 
in  for  it ;  there  was  no  help ;  and  with  ill-subdued 
vexation  he  read  on, — thus : 

"  And  with  \M&r-ShaTcspere>8  Dick  the  Third  !  " 

I  leave  you  to  imagine  the  blank  silence  that  ensued, 
and  "  the  clouds  that  lower'd  "  on  Richard's  brow, — 
a  face  peculiarly  strong  in  its  expression  of  scorn  and 
hate.  The  wicked  Taylor  had  "  stol'n,  like  a  guilty 
thing,  in  haste  away,"  and  the  rest  of  the  company 
shortly  followed.  It  was  a  "  foul  blow  "  of  Taylor's  ; 
but  some  men  would  rather  lose  their  friend  than 
their  joke  ;  and  this  fellow  was  one  of  them.  "  Pour 
moi," — as  the  Frenchwoman  said,  under  very  try 
ing  circumstances, — "je  deteste  les  mauvaises  plaisan- 
teries" 

I  have  mentioned  Kean's  early  initiation,  almost 
ab  ovo,  into  the  mysteries  of  the  histrionic  craft : 
Mrs.  SIDDONS'  commencement  appears  to  have  been 
almost  as  early,  and  even  more  strictly  elementary, 
if  what  we  learn  in  Rogers's  Table-talk  be  true,  that  the 
embryo  Lady  Macbeth  was  seen  when  a  girl,  standing 
at  the  wing  of  her  father's  stage,  and  knocking  a  pair 
of  snuffers  against  a  candlestick,  to  imitate  the  sound 


28 

of  a  windmill,  during  the  representation  of  some 
Harlequin  piece.  Ye  gods !  The  future  Queen  of 
Tragedy  a  mechanical  succedaneum !  the  hidden 
voice,  the  falsetto  of  a  creaking  windmill !  the  secret 
agent  of  a  pantomimic  sham  !  "To  what  base  uses" 
may  not  genius  be  turned  !  Who  dreamt,  then,  that 
that  candlestick-rapping  girl  would,  in  after  years, 
prove  such  a  spirit  rapper !  and  that  her  candlestick- 
scene  in  "  Macbeth  "  would  one  day  knock  so  terribly 
at  many  throbbing  hearts,  as  she  muttered  in  her  tor 
tured  sleep, 

"To  bed!  to  bed!  to  bed!" 

She  herself,  perhaps,  felt,  within,  a  foreshadowing 
of  the 

"All  hail,  hereafter!" 

for  genius  is  self-prophetic,  and  Heaven  vouchsafes  it 
glimpses,  through  present  darkness,  of  the  future 
glory  that  shall  environ  it,  and  thus  makes  it  "  strong 
to  hope  and  patient  to  endure  :  "  so  she  stood  at  the 
wing,  and  hammered  away  at  the  snuffers  and  can 
dlestick. 

We  have  seen  that  Keaii  (Edmund)  was  almost 
born  upon  the  stage,  certainly  in  the  purlieus  of  the 
theatre ;  and  his  son  Charles, — the  late  manager  of  the 
Princess's  Theatre  London,  from  which  he  has  just 
retired  with  great  eclat,  loaded  with  honors,  and  I 
trust  and  believe,  with  an  ample  fortune  to  crown  them, 
CHARLES  KEAN,  educated  at  Eton,  and  destined  by  his 
father  for  the  army,  donned  the  buskin  at  about 


SONS   OF   ACTORS.  29 

eighteen  years  of  age,  and  followed  in  his  father's 
walk  (haud  passibus  cequis,  perhaps),  if  not  with  his 
father's  genius  as  an  actor,  yet  with  a  much  higher 
position  and  character  as  a  man. 

Mrs.  Siddons's  father,  Roger  Kemble,  the  father 
of  JOHN  and  CHAKLES  KEMBLE,  and  consequently  the 
grandfather  of  Mrs.  FANNY  KEMBLE,  was  also  an  ac 
tor,  and  the  manager  of  a  provincial  theatre.  So  was 
Mr.  Macready's  father  actor  and  manager,  before  him  ; 
he  himself  was  destined  originally  for  the  bar,  and  com 
menced  his  education  at  Rugby,  I  believe,  with  the  in 
tention  of  finishing  it  at  Oxford  ;  but,  as  he  told  me 
himself,  pecuniary  difficulties  preventing  his  father 
from  carrying  out  his  intentions  in  as  full  a  manner 
as  the  youth  had  expected,  he  adopted  the  stage  as  a 
profession,  and  came  out  at  Birmingham  under  the 
fostering  care  of  the  paternal  management. 

It  is  a  fact  that  the  children  of  actors  usually  take 
to  their  fathers'  profession,  spite  of  all  the  well-laid 
plans  of  the  parents  to  prevent  it :  as  Prince  Hal  re 
minds  the  fat  knight, — "  "Wisdom  cries  out  in  the 
street,  and  no  man  regards  it."  Actors,  in  general, 
especially  those  who  have  attained  eminence,  have  a 
dread,  amounting  almost  to  horror,  of  their  young  ones 
following  in  the  same  career.  I  recollect,  as  a  boy 
with  my  father,  meeting  old  BKAHAM  in  Covent  Gar 
den  market,  London ;  and  apropos  of  my  future  des 
tination,  the  law,  my  u  governor "  asked  Braham, 
then  a  rich  and  prosperous  gentleman,  living  en 
prince  almost,  if  either  of  his  boys  would  be  on  the 
stage ;  to  which  the  great  tenor,  with  emphatic 
earnestness  replied, — "  God  forbid  !  One  is  for  the 


30  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

church,  the  other  for  the  army."  Yet  both  of  them 
ultimately  followed  in  the  paternal  footsteps,  and  are 
public  singers.  It  might  be  some  consolation  to  the 
veteran  that  his  daughter  became,  by  marriage,  the 
COUNTESS  WALDEGKAVE,  one  of  the  stars  of  the  stage 
of  high  life,  and  whose  name  figures  conspicuously 
in  Court  Play  bills,  among  the  noblest  of  the  land. 

In  our  case,  my  father  was  the  first  of  the  name 
of  Yandenhoff  who  ever  braved  the  dazzling  glare 
of  the  footlights.  Our  origin  is,  of  course,  Dutch ; 
an  ancestral  Dutchman  came  over  to  England  in 
the  train  of  William  of  Orange,  and  was,  by  that 
prince,  so  far  distinguished,  after  his  landing  at  Tor- 
bay  on  the  5th  November,  1688,  as  to  be  allowed  to 
use  armorial  bearings,  with  the  crest  a  mailed  hand 
and  sword,  with  the  motto  "  En  avant"  The  legend 
in  our  family  is  that  these  words  "  En  avant  "  (For 
ward  !)  were  the  exclamation  made,  and  the  order 
given  by  a  Yandenhoif  to  his  company,  on  leaping 
ashore  at  Torbay,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  with 
his  sword  in  his  mailed  hand. 

My  father,  JOHN  M.  YANDENHOFF,  was  educated 
at  Stonyhurst  College,  Lancashire,  England,  and  his 
original  destination  was  the  Church :  his  bent  for  the 
stage,  I  have  heard  him  say,  was  awakened  at  College, 
where  he  got  up  a  play,  (Sothern's  "  Oronooko,")  in 
the  large  play -room,  or  Truck- house,  as  it  was  called, 
from  the  old  game  of  Truck  being  played  in  it.  Leaving 
College  about  1807, 1  imagine  the  res  angusta  domi 
prevented  his  carrying  out  his  views  either  for  church 
or  law  ;  and  after  having,  for  about  a  year,  submitted 
to  the  drudgery  of  a  classical  teacher  in  a  large 


MY    FATHER.  31 

Academy  in  the  South  of  England,  (he  is  to  this  day 
an  excellent  Latin  scholar,)  his  thoughts  reverted  to 
his  boyish  triumphs  on  the  rude,  extemporized  boards, 
or  rather  flags,  of  the  College,  which  encouraged  him 
with  the  idea  of  trying  his  fortune  in  a  more  public, 
and  extended  arena.  Accordingly,  at  little  more  than 
eighteen  years  of  age,  he  made  his  first  appearance 
in  the  Salisbury  Theatre  (11  May,  1808)  in  the  char 
acter  of  Osmond,  in  Monk  Lewis's  then  highly  popu 
lar,  now  forgotten,  play  of  the  "  Castle  Spectre  ;  "  a 
melange  of  melodramatic  mysteries  and  spectral  ter 
rors,  such  as  Lewis  delighted  in,  presented  in  not 
inelegant,  though  high-flown  language,  which  seemed 
to  suit  the  dramatic  palate  of  that  day.  Osmond  is  a 
Scottish  earl,  the  lord  of  a  castle,  where  he  dwells 
surrounded  by  slaves  obedient  to  his  will ;  which 
will  is  a  very  diabolical  one,  delighting  in  deeds  of 
blood  and  crime ;  he  is  a  hero  of  the  Conrad  species : 

"  Lone,  wild  and  strange,  he  stood  alike  exempt 
From  all  affection  and  from  all  contempt : 
A  man  of  loneliness  and  mystery, 
Scarce  seen  to  smile,  and  seldom  heard  to  sigh  : 
And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  darkly  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled,  and  Mercy  sighed  farewell ! " 

The  general  tone  and  spirit  of  the  language  and 
the  design  may  be  gathered  from  Osmond's  descrip 
tion  of  his  dream,  which  will  be  new  to  most  of  my 
readers,  and  is  curious  as  a  specimen  of  what  pleased 
our  forefathers.  It  is  one  of  the  strong  passages  of 
the  play,  and  gave  the  actor  an  opportunity  of  depict 
ing  the  satanic  pride  of  guilt  shaken  and  torn  by  the 
agonies  of  remorse : 


32  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  Hark,  fellows !  instruments  of  my  guilt,  listen  to  my  pun 
ishment  !  Methought  I  wandered  through  the  low-browed  cav 
erns  where  repose  the  relics  of  my  ancestors.  Suddenly  a  female 
form  glided  along  the  vault ;  it  was  Angela !  She  smiled  upon 
me,  and  beckoned  to  me  to  advance.  I  flew  towards  her;  my 
arms  were  already  enclosed  to  clasp  her,  when  suddenly  her  figure 
changed,  her  face  grew  pale,  a  stream  of  blood  gushed  from  her 
bosom !  Hassan,  'twas  Evelina  ! 

[Osmond  lias  murdered  Evelina,  and  now  wishes 
to  marry  Angela.] 

8aib  and  Hassan.    Evelina ! 

Osmond.  Such  as  when  she  sank  at  my  feet  expiring,  while  my 
hand  grasped  the  dagger  still  crimsoned  with  her  blood  !  "  We 
meet  again  this  night !  "  murmured  her  hollow  voice ;  "  Now. 
rush  to  my  arms,— but  first  see  what  you  have  made  me  !  Em 
brace  me,  my  bridegroom  !  We  must  never  part  again !  "  While 
speaking,  her  form  withered  away ;  the  flesh  fell  from  her  bones ; 
her  eyes  burst  from  their  sockets;  a  skeleton,  loathsome  and 
meagre,  clasped  me  in  her  mouldering  arms  ! 

Sail).    Most  horrible ! 

[Decidedly  unpleasant,  I  should  say.] 

Osmond.  And  now,  blue  dismal  flames  gleamed  along  the 
walls ;  the  tombs  were  rent  asunder ;  bands  of  fierce  spectres 
rushed  around  me  in  frantic  dance; 

[A  by-no-means  attractive  corps  de  lallet  these  corpses.] 

furiously  they  gnashed  their  teeth  while  they  gazed  on  me  and 
shrieked,  in  loud  yell,  "  Welcome,  thou  fratricide !  welcome,  thou 
lost  forever  !  "  Horror  burst  the  bands  of  sleep ;  distracted  I  flew 
thither.  But  my  feelings — words  are  too  weak,  too  powerless  'to 
describe  them  ! 

[Very  probably ;  but  that  is  a  shabby  way  of  get 
ting  out  of  the  difficulty.  "  A  most  lame  and  impo 
tent  conclusion ! "] 


POPULARITY.  33 

Such  was  the  role  my  father  chose  for  his  first  ap 
pearance  ;  very  different  from  the  characters  on  which 
he  afterwards  built  his  reputation, — Hamlet,  Othello, 
Lear,  Shylock,  Brutus,  lago,  Cato,  Coriolanus,  Yir- 
ginius,  Master  Walter,  &c.,  and  by  which  he  stamped 
himself  as  the  classical  tragedian  of  his  day.  After 
an  apprenticeship  of  seven  or  eight  years  in  various 
country  theatres,  playing  all  sorts  of  business,  tragedy, 
comedy  and  farce, — and  even  sometimes  English 
opera, — (he  and  Edmund  Kean,  I  have  heard  him  say, 
sang  together  the  celebrated  duet  of  "All's  Well,"  in 
the  operetta  of  the  "  English  Fleet,")  he  was  engaged 
to  "  lead  the  business "  at  the  Liverpool  Theatre  in 
1815,  opened  in  Rolla,  stamped  himself  at  once  a  fa 
vorite,  and  during  a  long  acquaintance  with  that  pub 
lic,  secured  their  almost  affectionate  regard  to  such 
an  extent,  that  it  was  said,  ironically,  yet  with  a  spice 
of  truth,  that  the  children  there  were  taught  to  bring 
his  name  into  their  prayers,  thus  : 

u  Pray,  God  bless  my  father  and  mother,  sister  and 
brother,  and — Mr.  Yandenhoff !  " 

The  jest  has  a  point  in  it,  by  no  means  to  the  dis 
credit  of  the  subject  of  it.  From  Liverpool,  he  wrent  to 
Manchester,  Dublin,  Edinburgh,  making  periodical 
visits  to  all  the  principal  theatrical  cities  and  towns, 
and  everywhere  winning  golden  opinions  ;  till,  in  1819, 
he  was  engaged  to  appear  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
London,  and  opened  there  in  King  Lear,  Charles 
Kemble  playing  Edgar ;  the  Cordelia  was,  I  believe, 
Miss  Foote,  afterwards  Countess,  now  Dowager-Coun 
tess  of  Harrington,  one  of  the  most  charming  and  fas 
cinating  creatures  that  ever  bewitched  an  audience ! 


34  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

I  need  not  enter  into  the  further  particulars  of  my 
father's  theatrical  career,  except  to  allude  to  these  facts. 

That,  in  1835-'36,  he  "led  the  business"  at  both 
the  Theatres  Royal  Covent  Garden  and  Drury  Lane, 
playing  on  alternate  nights  at  each  theatre,  (the  other 
nights  being  filled  with  opera,)  with  a  company  of 
which  Miss  Ellen  Tree  (Mrs.  C.  Keaii)  was  a  member : 
that  on  Charles  Kemble's  retirement  from  the  stage, 
(1836,)  my  father  and  Mr.  Macready  appeared  to 
gether  with  Mr.  Kemble  to  houses  crowded  to  over 
flowing,  several  nights  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  in 
the  two  Shaksperean  plays,  Othello  and  Julius  Caesar, 
with  this  cast : 

Othello,  Mr.  Macready;  lago,  Mr.  Yandenhoff; 
Cassio,  Mr.  C.  Kemble : 

Brutus,  Mr.  Macready ;  Cassius,  Mr.  Yandenhoff; 
M.  Antony,  Mr.  C.  Kemble  : 

That,  in  the  season  of  1836-'3T,  he  played  the  part 
of  Eleazar,  in  the  "  Jewess,"  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre, 
eighty-nine  nights  in  succession,  Ellen  Tree  playing  his 
daughter :  that,  the  season  following  he  visited  this 
country,  for  the  first  time,  and  was  engaged  by  Mr. 
Wallack  to  open  at  the  National  Theatre,  in  Leonard- 
street  (burnt  the  season  after) ;  that,  in  his  particular 
line, — the  characters  I  have  specified  above, — he  ob 
tained  a  reputation  and  popularity  in  this  country 
never  surpassed  by  that  of  any  English  actor : 

That,  on  his  return  to  England,  his  assistance  was 
eagerly  sought  by  Mr.  Macready  in  his  enterprise  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre :  that  his  performance  of 
Adrastus,  in  Ion,  was  allowed  by  Talfourd  himself, 
the  author,  to  have  raised  Adrastus  to  the  dignity  of 


A   FILIAL    REMINISCENCE.  35 

the  principal  part  in  the  play ;  as  the  Times  observed, 
"  With  the  death  of  Adrastus  the  interest  of  the  play 
was  over : " 

That  his  rendering  of  the  Chorus  in  Henry  V.,  was 
pronounced  to  be  the  great  feature  of  the  whole  per 
formance,  and  that  Mr.  Macready  himself  declared 
his  delivery  of  the  magnificent  language  to  be  "  the 
perfection  of  musical  elocution  :  " 

Finally,  that  after  more  than  a  half  century's  work 
"in  harness,"  he  has  taken  off  his  armor  and  retired 
from  the  field  in  his  seventy-first  year,  without  a  blot 
on  his  escutcheon,  or  a  blemish  on  his  name ;  and 
that  it  is  only  a  few  months  since  he  was  honored,  in 
Liverpool,  with  a  magnificent  testimonial  from  old 
friends  and  admirers ;  the  Mayor,  who  presided  on  the 
occasion,  being  seated  in  the  (well  authenticated) 
chair  in  which  Robert  Burns  wrote  the  "  Cotter's  Sat 
urday  Night,"  and  the  whole  company  present  pledg 
ing  their  guest  in  a  cup  that  belonged  to  Garrick. 

(Pardon  me,  reader,  if  I  have  dwelt  too  long  on 
this  sketch ;  it  is  a  son's  passing  tribute  to  a  father's 
name :  I  may  say,  with  a  slight  alteration,  with  the 
poet, — for  it  has  not  come  to  desiderium  yet ;  he  still 

lives : — 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 
Tarn  cari  capitis !) 

"Well,  as  to  myself,  I  was  sent  away  from  home  to 
school  at  a  very  early  age,  and  afterwards  to  the  same 
college  at  which  my  father  had  been  educated ;  where, 
however,  I  was  expressly  forbidden  to  take  any  part 
in  the  plays  that  were  acted  at  Christmas  time,  with 
"  scenery,  dresses  and  decorations,"  in  the  large  hall 


36  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

or  lecture  room  of  the  college,  elegantly  fitted  up  as 
a  theatre ;  and,  on  emerging  from  the  precincts  of 
Alma  Mater,  I  was  forthwith  set  to  the  study  of  the 
law,  and  in  due  course  duly  admitted  and  sworn  of 
"  Her  Majesty's  courts  at  Westminster;"  and  yet — 
("  Heaven  save  the  mark  ! ") 

"  for  all  his  prayers,  the  fool  (ego  met  ipse  videlicet)  was  drowned," 

that  is,  fell  into  the  very  pond  the  parental  care  had 
been  so  desirous  to  save  me  from !  But  the  fault  was 
entirely  my  own. 

The  result  of  my  experience  is,  that  the  Stage  is 
the  last  occupation  a  young  man  of  spirit  and  ambi 
tion  should  think  of  following,  for  this  one  reason,  if 
for  no  other :  that  it  seems  to  cut  him  off  from  the 
business  of  life,  and  from  the  great  movements  and 
practical  working  of  the  world — the  objects  of  a 
worthy  and  legitimate  ambition. 

The  actor's  individuality,  as  a  citizen,  seems  lost 
in  the  fictitious  world  in  which  he  lives  and  moves 
and  has  his  being.  He  is  king,  governor,  general, 
statesman,  hero  of  a  fantastic  realm,  but  from  the 
practical  interests  of  this  work-a-day  world  he  seems 
to  be  segregated  and  apart.  His  ambition,  if  he  have 
it,  must  be  confined  to  the  narrow  circle  and  the  un 
substantial  honors  of  the  mimic  scene :  from  those 
nobler  ones  of  the  great  stage  of  life,  its  civic  laurels 
and  political  triumphs,  he  is  silently  shut  out.  Who 
ever  heard  of  an  actor  being  sent  to  parliament  or  to 
congress,  being  made  an  alderman  or  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  or  even  a  "  gentleman  of  the  select  Westry  ? " 

Besides,  the  novice's  career  is  one  of  continual  hu- 


A  NIGHT'S  WOKK.  37 

miliations,  and  wounds  to  self-love  ;  great  uncertainty 
of  employment ;  and,  if  employed,  hard  work  and 
small  pay.  As  lie  advances  into  the  position  of  a 
regular  actor,  the  amount  of  study  piled  upon  him,  of 
fresh  parts  to  be  "  up  in  "  at  short  notice,  is  brain- 
splitting:  in  some  cases  over-study  has  produced 
brain-fever.  Therefore,  let  no  rash  youth,  "  with  a  soul 
above  buttons, "  adopt  the  stage  as  a  means  of  elegant 
idleness  ;  if  he  do,  he  will  be  wofully  mistaken,  when 
he  finds  that,  after  a  hard  week's  work,  even  Sunday 
is  not  always  a  day  of  rest  to  his  study-wearied  brain, 
worn  out  with 

"Words,  words,  words! " 

I  have  it  from  an  eminent  living  actor,  that  in  the 
early  part  of  his  career  in  England,  he  has,  on  one  and 
the  same  night,  played  Hamlet,  sung  a  comic  song  be 
tween  play  and  farce,  and  wound  up  with  Jeremy 
Diddler  in  the  after-piece  ;  all  for  the  splendid  reward 
of  the  applause  and  broad  grins  of  a  set  of  country 
rustics,  with  a  very  sparse  sprinkling  of  intelligence 
and  gentility  amongst  them,  and  the  magnificent 
salary  of  one  guinea  ($5)  per  week ;  and  he  was  ex 
pected  on  this  to  "  wear  clean  linen  and  live  like  a 
gentleman ! " 

"  Think  of  that,  Master  Brooke !  " 


38  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


III. 


THEATRE  EOYAL,  Liverpool — A  Bald  Incident — Miss  FATTCIT — KISTORI  and  EA- 
CIIEL  Contrasted — ELLEN  TREE — "  Love  "  at  Covent  Garden — The  Study  of  a 
Character — A  Word  to  Young  Actors — The  Prompter — Nimiwm,  ne  crede  I — 
BARKY  of  Dublin — Anecdotes. 

HAVING  repeated  my  opening  part  of  Leon  five  times 
at  Covent  Garden,  I  asked,  and  was  allowed  a  conge 
of  a  week,  to  accept  a  very  advantageous  offer  of  five 
nights  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Liverpool,  then  under 
the  management  of  Mr.  Lewis,  son  of  the  celebrated 
comedian,  and  a  man  of  independent  means  and  for 
tune.  His  acting  manager  was  Mr.  R.  Clarke ;  and 
the  Liverpool  Theatre  was,  at  that  time,  the  most  prof 
itable  theatrical  property  in  England,  second  only  to 
London.  I  played  my  five  nights  with  considerable 
eclat,  received  great  attentions  from  the  very  best 
quarters,  my  audiences  comprised  the  fashion  and 
wealth  of  the  town,  and  I  pocketed,  for  my  share  of 
the  proceeds,  £211  (about  $1,050.)  This  sum,  however, 
was  almost  entirely  exhausted  in  providing  myself 
with  costumes  for  the  Duke  Aranza,  Julien  St. 
Pierre,  and  Faulconbridge,  which,  with  two  perform 
ances  of  Leon,  took  me  through  the  week.  When  it 


A   BALD   INCIDENT.  39 

is  recollected  that  I  had  not  belonged  to  the  profes 
sion  a  month,  it  will  be  admitted  that  I  had  not  been 
idle  to  get  "  up  "  even  in  so  small  a  list,  in  that  limited 
time.  But  my  "  study,"  as  the  actors  call  the  habit 
of  swallowing  words,  was  always  quick ;  and  there 
was  an  excellent  and  experienced  prompter  at  the 
Liverpool  Theatre,  Lloyds,  who  did  me  good  service 
in  putting  me  up  to  the  "  business,"  or  conventional 
action  of  the  scenes  in  which  I  was  engaged.  I  owe 
Lloyds  thanks  for  that ;  his  assistance  was  valuable  to 
a  novice,  and  I  willingly  acknowledge  it.  The  actors, 
too,  and  actresses  were,  with  very  few  exceptions, 
kind  and  considerate  ;  and  the  Liverpool  press  more 
than  confirmed  the  favorable  opinion  passed  on  me  in 
London.  So  I  had  reason  to  congratulate  myself  on 
my  first  engagement  at  Liverpool,  where,  from  old  as 
sociations  in  a  different  sphere,  the  ordeal  was  a  try 
ing  one. 

One  incident  that  happened  to  me  on  the  stage  at 
Liverpool  was  amusing,  though  rather  trying  to  the 
nerves  of  a  novice,  or  indeed  of  an  old  stager.  I  was 
blessed  at  that  time  with  a  luxuriant  crop  of  light, 
curly  hair,  which,  in  the  heat  of  my  young  ambition 
and  aesthetic  determination  to  have  my  stage-wigs  set 
as  closely  and  naturally  as  possible  at  night,  I  had 
sacrificed  to  the  razor;  wearing,  during  the  day,  a 
toupee,  made  from  my  own  shorn  locks.  Of  course, 
there  was  no  necessity  for  this :  it  was  simply  an  am 
bitious  novice's  martyr-like  desire  for  artistic  perfec 
tion.  The  result  was  certainly  gratifying.  I  had 
wigs  made  by  Truefit,  of  Burlington  Arcade  celebrity : 
they  were  worthy  of  his  name  ;  they  fitted  my  shaven 


40  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

crown  like  wax ;  and,  with  their  more-than-natural 
artificial  parting  at  the  side,  it  was  impossible  to  de 
tect  the  sham,  at  a  yard's  distance.  In  Julien  St. 
Pierre,  I  wore  one  of  these  triumphs  of  capillary  per 
fection — an  elegant  dark  brown,  with  tints  of  auburn 
cunningly  interwoven  in  it,  glossy,  and  gracefully 
wavy  in  effect.  I  made  up  my  face  in  harmony  with 
its  crown,  was  dressed  in  picturesque  costume,  new 
for  the  occasion,  and  presented  myself,  on  the  change 
from  my  beggar's  garb,  in  the  third  act,  with  perfect 
confidence  in  the  general  completeness  of  my  appoint 
ments.  The  audience  flattered  me  with  a  gracious  re 
ception,  and  all  went  on  admirably  till  the  last  scene 
of  the  fifth  act.  Here  a  dreadful  contretemps  befell 
me. 

To  carry  out  the  idea  of  a  secret  flight  from  Man 
tua,  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  act,  after  the  great  dagger - 
scene  with  the  duke,  in  which  St.  Pierre  compels  him 
to  sign  the  confession,  and  then  leaves  him  locked  up 
in  the  chamber  in  which  he  himself  had  been  con 
fined, — to  aid  the  effect  of  St.  Pierre's  entrance  and 
discovery  in  the  fifth  act,  I  had  enveloped  myself  in 
an  ample  disguise-cloak,  and  had  covered  my  head 
with  a  large  black  sombrero.  The  hat  was,  like  all 
my  appointments,  quite  new,  had  never  been  worn, 
even,  and  consequently  was  very  stiff  and  tight  to  the 
head.  The  result  was  that  when,  intending  to  make 
a  tremendous  sensation,  I  rushed  down  to  the  lights, 
confronting  the  slanderous  duke  in  his  calumny  of 
Mariana,  with  the  words — 

"  Liar !  she  is  as  true  as  thou  art  false ! " 


A    BALD   INCIDENT.  41 

and  throwing  off  hat  and  cloak  to  reveal  myself  to  his 
astonished  eyes;  the  unlucky  hat,  on  which  I  relied  so 
much,  unfortunately  sticking  rather  tightly,  brought 
off  my  wig  with  it !  and  there  I  stood,  the  foremost 
figure  of  the  group  :  all  the  honors  of  my  head  van 
ished  ;  and  my  crown,  as  bald  as  the  back  of  my 
hand,  for  it  had  been  clean  shaven  that  very  morning ! 
There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  house ; 

"  Big  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  my  brow," 
"  Tremor  occupat  artus ;  " 

but  I  stood  firm.  The  actors  behaved  with  great  stead 
iness, — in  fact,  I  believe  they  were  "  horror-stricken, 
and  moved  not."  The  scene  went  on,  I  spoke  my 
words,  the  duke  stabbed  me,  I  died  with  my  sister's 
arms  round  her  long-lost  brother's  neck, 

"  Our  father's  cottage,  Mariana," 

swimming  before  my  death-glazed  eyes ;  and  not  a 
soul  in  the  house  even  laughed,  or  testified  any  sense 
of  the  ludicrousness  of  the  mischance.  Nay,  more  ; 
at  the  fall  of  the  curtain  I  was  honored  with  a  loud 
and  general  call ;  put  on  my  wig,  reappeared,  and 
made  my  obeisance  to  applauding  friends.  The  act 
ors  generally  complimented  me  on  my  self-possession, 
which  they  declared  had  alone  prevented  the  curtain 
from  falling  amid  shouts  of  laughter.  It  was  a  narrow 
escape !  I  never  repeated  the  effect  afterwards,  you 
may  well  believe. 

Miss  (Harriet)  FATJCIT,  afterwards  known  in  this 
country   as   Mrs.   Bland ;   was  the  Mariana  of  the 


42  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

evening  :  her  horror  at  the  fall  of  the  wig  was  breath 
less  ;  she  stood  statue-like,  a  stone-struck  Niobe  ! 

Let  me  pay  this  slight  tribute  to  her  memory,  (she 
died  in  Boston  some  six  or  eight  years  ago ;)  she  was 
an  excellent  actress,  both  in  tragedy  and  comedy; 
with  natural  talents  for  the  stage,  quite  equal  to  those 
of  her  more  fortunate  sister  Helen,  and  without  her 
affectation  and  mannerisms  learnt  from  Macready; 
but  Helen  was  brought  out  in  London  under  Mr. 
Farren's  protecting  care,  and  under  Macready's 
schooling,  and 

"  So  father'd  and  so  husbanded,"— 

manager^d  I  mean, — soon  rose  to  distinction.  She 
was  the  original  Pauline,  in  Bulwer's  "Lady  of 
Lyons ; "  that  one  part  alone  was  enough  to  make 
any  actress ;  and  the  position  she  thus  acquired,  was 
confirmed  by  several  other  original  parts  in  new 
plays — Clara  Douglas  in  "Money,"  Nina  Sforza, 
&c. — in  all  of  which  she  had  the  advantage  of  Mr. 
Macready's  tuition,  and  the  disadvantage  of  his  man 
ner  being,  by  example  and  contagion,  ingrafted  on 
her  style,  which,  in  other  respects,  is  refined,  highly 
intelligent,  and  marked  with  a  winning  feminine  soft 
ness.  I  have  played  with  her  in  later  years,  at 
Manchester  and  Dublin ;  and,  though  she  is  perhaps 
somewhat  exacting,  yet  I  have  always  felt  it  a  great 
pleasure  to  act  with  her.  Her  expression  of  love  is 
the  most  beautifully  confiding,  trustful,  self-abandon 
ing  in  its  tone,  that  I  have  ever  witnessed  in  any 
actress;  it  is  intensely  fascinating.  The  great  Miss 


RISTORI — RACHEL — ELLEN   TREE.  43 

O'NEILL  (now  Lady  Beecher)  is  celebrated  tradition 
ally  for  her  exquisite  abandon,  and  yet  feminine 
delicacy  of  passion  in  love-scenes,  but  I  cannot  con 
ceive  that  she  could  surpass  Helen  Fancit  in  this 
one  excellence,  however  she  may  have  gone  beyond 
her  in  others.  And  this  is  an  excellence  of  the  high 
est  consequence  to  a  tragic  actress ;  without  it,  she 
may  be  powerful  in  passages  of  great  force,  and  strong 
passionate  energy,  but  she  cannot  be  winning,  charm 
ing,  crowned  with  the  graces  of  a  woman. 

This  was  RACHEL'S  great  want ;  she  had  no  love  in 
her  /  I  mean  love  properly  so-called :  of  the  baser  pas 
sion,  its  bastard  brother,  she  had  more  than  enough ;  but 
of  the  pure,  unselfish,  self-sacrificing  love  of  a  virtuous 
woman,  she  knew  nothing  ;  it  was  out  of  her  diction 
ary  ;  she  had  no  expression  for  it ;  it  did  not  seem  to 
enter  into  the  catalogue  of  her  received  sensations. 
She  had  scorn,  irony,  rage,  despair,  passion,  but  no 
love  ;  unless  the  heat  of  a  tigress  be  love.  Such  was  her 
Phsedre  ;  but  what  would  she  have  done  with  Imogen, 
or  Juliet  ?  Bah !  she  would  have  degraded  them  to 
mere  impersonations  of  animal  passion,  or  voluptuous 
cynisme.  This  is  the  point,  too,  in  which  RISTORI, 
the  Italian  tragedienne,  so  far  surpasses  the  French 
one  ;  in  loving  sweetness,  the  outgushing  of  a  trustful, 
unselfish  woman's  heart.  Rachel  might  make  you 
wonder  at  her  energy,  her  force,  her  demoniacal  in 
tensity  ;  Ristori  makes  you  weep  with  her,  and  love 
her  by  her  nobleness,  the  depth  of  her  feeling,  and  its 
feminine  expression.  Even  in  Medea,  the  character 
which  Rachel  refused  to  play,  Ristori  is  a  woman ; 
outraged,  injured,  revengeful,  maddened  with  her 


44  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

wrongs,  but  still  a  woman  :  Rachel  would  have  made 
her  a  tigress,  or  a  fiend ! 

ELLEN  TREE  had  a  great  gift  of  this  woman's  win 
ning  softness.  She  was  an  elegant,  graceful,  delicate 
actress  ;  refined,  well  studied ;  playful,  lively,  sarcas 
tic,  in  comedy:  her  Rosalind,  Mrs.  Oakley,  Lady 
Teazle,  Beatrice,  were  all  charming  performances.  In 
a  certain  line  of  tragedy,  too,  she  displayed  great  con 
centration  of  passion,  a  subdued  intensity,  a  sup 
pressed  fire,  that  seemed  to  burn  her  up  and  gnaw  her 
heart ;  as  in  the  Countess  in  "Love,"  Ginevra  in  the 
"  Legend  of  Florence,"  and  others ;  the  woman  spoke 
out  in  all  of  these.  Her  Mrs.  Haller  was  the  most 
naturally  touching  performance  of  that  character  which 
I  ever  witnessed.  She  is  a  noble  creature,  too,  in  face 
and  form  ;  not  unlike  Ristori  in  many  of  her  personal 
traits  ;  but  in  the  highest  walks  of  tragedy,  as  Lady 
Macbeth,  Lady  Constance,  in  "  King  John,"  and  such 
parts,  she  is  deficient  in  massive  power  of  execution  ; 
a  defect  which  her  intelligence,  great  as  it  is,  and  her 
conscientious  study  of  her  author,  are  inadequate  to 
supply.  She  is  a  charming  artiste,  and  a  high-souled 
woman.  Would  the  stage  had  many  such  ! 

RISTOEI  is  the  tragic  actress  of  the  day ;  and  that, 
not  by  the  decease  of  RACHEL,  but  by  her  own  pre 
eminent  and  surpassing  genius  ;  which  places  her  on 
the  throne,  to 

"  wear  without  corrival  all  its  dignities." 


On  my  return  to  London,  after  my  five  nights  at 
Liverpool,  I  was  not  called  upon  to  play  for  some 
weeks,  in  consequence  of  the  run  of  "Love,"  at  Covent 


STUDY  OF  A  PART.  45 

Garden  Theatre.  Ellen  Tree  had  just  returned  from 
the  United  States,  where  she  had  made  herself  a  uni 
versal  favorite,  the  admired,  almost  the  beloved  of 
all ;  and  this  new  play  of  Knowles's  was  produced  to 
display  her  talents  worthily  in  the  Countess.  The 
part  was  admirably  suited  to  her ;  and  she  did  it  full 
justice.  She  was  well  supported  by  Anderson  (J.  R.) 
in  Huon,  the  first  original  part  of  importance  which 
had  been  intrusted  to  him  on  the  London  stage  ;  he 
acted  it  with  great  spirit ;  and,  with  Madame  Yestris 
in  Catharine,  and  Cooper  in  the  Duke,  the  play  ran 
ten  successive  weeks,  and  put  money  into  the  treasury 
of  the  Theatre. 

During  this  time  I  was  necessarily  idle.  I  employed 
myself  in  adding  to  my  list  of  characters  ;  and  gave 
at  least  an  hour  every  day  to  Hamlet ;  which  practice 
I  continued  for  six  months,  before  I  ventured  to  offer 
myself  to  an  audience  in  the  part ;  going  regularly 
every  day  through  an  act.  aloud,  as  I  conceived  and 
intended  to  present  it,  with  action;  until  I  felt  myself 
easy  and  confident  enough  in  the  text,  purpose  and 
working  of  the  whole  play,  and  particularly  in  the 
execution  of  Hamlet,  to  venture  before  an  audience, 
as  the  representative  of  this  wonderful  incongruity, 
this  harmonious  discord,  this  paragon  of  imperfections, 
adorned  with  every  grace  and  accomplishment  of  per 
son  and  of  mind ;  capable  of  "  enterprises  of  great 
pith  and  moment,"  yet  "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale 
cast  of  thought,"  and  thus  losing  the  time  of  action  in 
philosophical  speculations  and  metaphysical  abstrac 
tions. 

Such  was   the  spirit  in  which   I   undertook   the 
study  of  Hamlet ;  but  previous  to   venturing  on  its 


46  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

representation,  I  assured  myself  of  the  compactness 
of  my  design  and  general  conception,  as  well  as  of 
my  ability  to  execute  what  I  intended,  by  giving  a 
discourse  on  the  play,  with  readings  of  the  principal 
scenes  and  soliloquies  before  the  Westminster  Literary 
and  Scientific  Institution.  This  was  the  first  Shaks- 
perean  Beading  I  ever  gave,  and  the  applause  I  re 
ceived  on  that  occasion,  from  a  very  large,  over 
crowded  audience  of  more  than  average  intelligence, 
was  a  great  encouragement  to  me,  and  first  turned 
my  thoughts  towards  public  reading. 

And  here,  apropos  to  studying  new  parts,  let  me 
impress  upon  young  actors  beginning  their  career, 
the  high  importance  of  a  strict,  conscientious,  exact 
study  of  the  text  of  the  author,  to  start  with.  Negli 
gence  or  slovenliness  in  this  respect  is  fatal  to  success ; 
if  our  first  study  of  a  part  be  careless  and  inexact} 
after-study  will  seldom  secure  perfectness,  and  we 
shall  always  have  a  painful  feeling  of  insecurity,  in 
playing  the  character.  The  young  actor  should 
habituate  himself  at  the  outset  to  great  correctness 
of  text,  and  he  will  be  amply  rewarded  by  the  confi 
dence  and  ease  which  it  will  give  him.  An  ambitious 
aspirant,  with  just  pride  in  himself .  and  his  art,  will 
scorn  to  look  to  the  prompter  for  help  ;  who  is,  besides, 
a  very  uncertain  reed  to  lean  upon ;  for  it  is  a  well- 
known  anomaly  in  prompters  (who  are  seldom  prompt 
— quasi  lucus  a  nori),  that  they  are  usually  a  page  or 
two  behind  the  actual  locus  standi,  or  sticking-place 
in  a  performance;  so  that,  if  a  hitch  occur,  the 
prompter  has  generally  to  inquire  "  where  they  are," 
and  to  turn  over  two  or  three  pages  to  get  to  the  line 


THE    PROMPTER.  47 

where  they  are  at  fault.    This  is,  of  course,  awkward 
for  the  defaulter. 

Thus,  it  is  told  of  Old  Barry,  as  he  was  called,  for 
merly  prompter  in  the  Dublin  Theatre  (no  relation  to 
him  of  "  the  Boston "),  that  he  was  so  entirely  inde 
pendent  of,  and  abstracted  from  the  portion  of  the 
text  actually  going  on,  that  on  an  actor's  "  sticking  " 
one  night,  and  looking  anxiously  towards  Barry  at 
the  wing,  for  the  "  word,"  (as  it  is  called,)  Barry,  who 
was,  of  course,  engaged  in  some  other  business  at  the 
time,  and  his  thoughts  far  away,  took  not  the  slightest 
notice  of  the  appeal ;  till  the  actor  at  last,  in  despair, 
called  out, — "  Barry,  give  me  the  word,  will  you  ?  " 
To  which  Barry,  with  the  imperturbability  of  a 
prompter,  and  the  exquisite  unconsciousness  of  an 
Irishman,  replied,  loud  enough  for  the  audience  to 
hear, — "  What  word,  my  boy  ?  "  and  coolly  wetting 
his  thumb,  began  turning  over  the  leaves  to  get  up 
with  the  unfortunate  defaulter,  who,  wanting  the 
word,  was  asked  *'  what  word  he  wanted  !  " 

This  same  Barry,  by-the-bye — as  good-natured  a 
soul  as  ever  tossed  off  a  tumbler  of  whiskey  punch 
without  winking — (dead,  now,  poor  fellow,)  was  an 
eccentric  old  humorist;  and,  having  been  years  an 
actor  in  Dublin,  was  on  most  familiar  terms  with  that 
most  easy,  impudent,  and  familiar  audience.  The 
colloquies  they  held  together, — the  actor  from  the 
stage,  and  the  habitues  of  the  shilling  gallery,  from 
their 

"  Nook  and  coigne  of  vantage," 

were,  in  themselves,  "  as  good  as  a  play,"  and  fre- 


48  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

quently  stopped  the  play  itself,  and  kept  the  whole 
house,  actors  included,  in  a  roar. 

Thus  Barry,  who  had  a  well-known  penchant  for 
the  "  m atay rials  "  nicely  blended,  came  rolling  on  to 
the  stage,  one  night,  under  an  unusual  press  of  poteen, 
when  he  was  immediately  saluted  by  a  voice  of  one 
of  the  upper  ten  in  the  gallery,  with 

"  Barry,  you  tief  o'  the  woruld  !  how  many  tum 
blers  o'  whiskey-punch  did  you  take  to-night  ?  " 

To  which  Barry,  looking  up  with  a  scornful  leer, 
replied — 

"  None,  ye  blackgyard,  at  your  expense !  " 
and  not  the  least  abashed,  went  on  with  his  business. 
In  this  case  the  laugh  was  against  his  assailant. 

Not  so  always.  During  the  run  of  Tom  and  Jerry, 
which  was  played  in  Dublin  some  fifty  or  more  nights 
successively,  Barry's  originally  white  Russia-duck 
pants,  which  he  continued  to  wear,  night  after  night, 

Unwashed,  unbleached  and  unrenewed, 
With  all  their  imperfections  on  their  front, 

began  to  assume  rather  a  dusky  shade,  indicating  their 
innocence  of  soap  and  water.  At  last,  when  these  long- 
enduring  pants  (Russia-duck)  made  their  appearance 
about  the  twentieth  night,  encasing  Barry's  legs  as  if 
they  grew  there,  and  were  never  to  "  undergo  a 
change,"  (" sea-change"  fresh  water  or  other,)  one 
of  Barry's  persecutors  cried  out  to  him,  from  the  gal 
lery— 

"  Whisht !  Barry,  you  divel !  "  thus  arresting  the 
attention  of  the  house  for  his  coup. 

"  What  do  ye  want,  you  blackgyard  ? "  said  Barry, 


A    HIT    FROM    THE    GALLERY.  49 

nothing  moved  by  a  style  of  address  with  which  he 
was  familiar. 

"  Wait  till  I  whisper  you,"  said  the  voice.  (All 
were  silent.)  "  When  did  your  ducks  take  the  water 
last?" 

The  house  was  uproarious  with  laughter  for  several 
minutes  ;  and  Barry,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  was 
left  without  a  retort  to  the  gallery-boy.  The  next 
night,  however,  a  change  was  evident ;  and  his  Rus 
sia-ducks  were  white  as  Russia's  snows. 


50  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


IV. 


THE  GEEEN-KOOM  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre— Its  Eegulations— Queen's  Visits— 
DOLLY  FITZ — Mrs.  JOEDAN  and  the  Duke  of  Clarence — Heading  of  New  Plays — 
LEIGH  HUNT — SHEBIDAH  KNOWLES — Casting  a  New  Play — The  Plausible  Man 
ager. 

LET  it  be  recorded,  to  Yestris's  honor,  that  she  was 
not  only  scrupulously  careful  not  to  offend  propriety 
by  word  or  action,  but  she  knew  very  well  how  to  re 
press  any  attempt  at  doulle-entendre  or  doubtful  in 
sinuation,  in  others.  The  Green-Room  in  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  was  a  most  agreeable  lounging-place, 
a  divan  adorned  with  beauties,  where  one  could  pass 
a  pleasant  hour  in  the  society  of  charming  women 
and  men  of  gentlemanly  manners,  and  from  which 
was  banished  every  word  or  allusion  that  would  not 
be  tolerated  in  a  drawing-room.  A  man  must  be 
hard  to  please  who  was  not  agreeably  entertained, 
with  such  gratification  to  ear  and  eye,  as  could  be 
found  in  the  elegant  society  and  ladylike  conversation 
of  Ellen  Tree,  the  sprightliness  of  Mrs.  Nisbett,  the 
quaint  humor  of  Mrs.  Ilumby,  besides  the  attractions 
of  a  bevy  of  lesser  beauties,  the  "jesting  spirit"  of 
Harley,  the  amusing  egotism  of  Farren,  and  the  jokes, 
repartees,  anecdotes  and  reminiscences  of  others ;  and 


THE   GREEN-ROOM.  51 

this,  with  the  addition  of  a  popular  artist,  or  of  one  or 
more  dramatic  authors.  Such  was  the  fare  we  enjoyed 
in  the  first  Green-Room. 

It  must  be  understood  that  in  Covent  Garden  and 
Drury  Lane  theatres,  there  were  a  first  and  second 
Green-Room.  :  the  first,  exclusively  set  apart  for  the 
corps  dramatique  proper, — the  actors  and  actresses  of 
a  certain  position ;  the  second,  belonging  to  the  corps 
de  ballet,  the  pantomimists,  and  all  engaged  in  that 
line  of  business — what  are  called  the  little  people — ex 
cept  the  principal  male  and  female  dancer,  (at  that 
time,  at  Covent  Garden,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilbert,)  who 
had  the  privilege  of  the  first  Green -Room. 

The  term  Green-Room  arose  originally  from  the 
fact  of  that  room  being  carpeted  in  green  (baize,  proba 
bly),  and  the  covering  of  the  divans  being  green — stuff. 
But  the  first  Green-Room  in  Covent  Garden  Theatre 
was  a  withdrawing  room,  carpeted  and  papered  ele 
gantly;  with  a  handsome  chandelier  in  the  centre, 
several  globe  lights  at  the  sides,  a  comfortable  divan, 
covered  in  figured  damask,  running  round  the  whole 
room,  large  pier  and  mantel-glasses  on  the  walls,  and 
a  full-length  movable  swing-glass;  so  that,  on  enter, 
ing  from  his  dressing-room,  an  actor  could  see  himself 
from  head  to  foot  at  one  view,  and  get  back,  front, 
and  side  views  by  reflection,  all  round.  This  is  the 
first  point  to  attend  to  on  entering  the  Green-Room, 
to  see  if  one's  dress  is  in  perfect  order,  well  put  on  by 
the  dresser,  hanging  well,  and  perfectly  comme  ilfaut. 
Having  satisfied  him  or  herself  on  these  interesting 
points,  even  to  the  graceful  drooping  of  a  feather,  the 
actor  or  actress  sits  down,  and  enters  into  con  versa- 


52  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

tion  with  those  around,  which  is  interrupted  every 
now  and  then  by  the  shrill  voice  of  the  call-'boy 
"  making  his  calls."  The  call-boy  is  a  most  important 
"  remembrancer ;  " — he  may  be  named  the  prompter's 
devil,  as  the  boy  in  a  printing  office  who  calls  for 
copy  is  yclept  the  printer's  devil.  His  business  is  to 
give  the  actors  and  actresses  notice,  by  calling  at  the 
door  of  the  Green-Room  (he  is  not  allowed  to  enter 
those  sacred  precincts,  in  a  London  theatre),  the  names 
of  the  persons  whose  presence  is  required  on  the  stage. 
This  he  does  by  direction  of  the  prompter,  who,  about 
live  minutes,  or  three  lengths  (120  lines)  before  a  char 
acter  has  to  enter  on  the  stage,  finds  marked  in  his 
prompt-book  of  the  play  a  number  thus  [3].  He 
then  says  to  his  attendant  imp,  who  has  a  list  in  his 
hand,  (a  call-list — very  different  from  a  New  Year's 
call-list,)  "  Call  three  /" — the  boy  looks  at  his  list,  walks 
to  the  Green-Room  door,  and  calls  the  character 
marked  [3]  in  that  act ;  or  the  prompter  orders  him 
to  call  4,  5,  6,  7  :  he  consults  his  list  for  the  act,  finds 
these  numbers,  and  at  the  Green-Room  door  calls  the 
characters  they  represent,  thus  : — 

HAMLET, 
HOKATIO, 
MARCELLUS, 
GHOST. 

The  gentlemen  who  represent  these  characters,  on 
being  thus  called,  rise,  leave  the  Green-Room,  and  go 
and  stand  at  the  wing — the  side-scene — at  which  they 
are  presently  to  enter.  All  the  calls  are  made  at  the 
Green-Room  door,  and  it  is  at  an  actor's  peril  to  take 


DRAWING-ROOM   MANAGEMENT.  53 

notice  of  them  :  it  is  only  on  a  change  of  dress  that  he 
is  entitled  to  be  called  at  his  dressing-room,  except 
stars,  and  they  insist  on  being  always  called  there,  as 
well  as  in  the  Green-Room  ;  and  the  point  is  conceded 
to  them. 

In  many  theatres,  the  calls  are  made  by  the  name 
of  the  actor  or  actress  representing  the  character 
called.  It  was  so,  if  I  recollect,  at  Covent  Garden  ;  at 
the  Haymarket  it  is  otherwise ;  and  generally  through 
out  the  theatres  of  the  United  States,  the  calls  are 
made  by  the  names  of  the  characters ;  and  it  is  the 
safer  plan,  and  less  liable  to  mistakes  on  the  part  of 
the  call-boys :  each  way  has  its  own  advantages  and 
disadvantages. 

The  Green-Room  was  exceedingly  comfortable 
during  the  Mathews  and  Yestris  management.  In 
deed,  I  must  pay  them  the  compliment  of  saying  that 
their  arrangements  generally  for  the  convenience  of 
their  company,  the  courtesy  of  their  behavior  to  the 
actors,  and  consideration  for  their  comforts,  formed 
an  example  well  worthy  to  be  followed  by  managers 
in  general ;  who  are  not,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  usually  re 
markable  for  those  qualities.  In  fact,  the  reign  of 
Vestris  and  her  husband  might  be  distinguished  as 
the  drawing-room  management.  On  special  occa 
sions — the  opening  night  of  the  season,  for  example, 
or  a  "  Queen's  visit," — tea  and  coffee  were  served  in 
the  Green-Room ;  and  frequently  between  the  acts, 
some  of  the  officers  of  the  guard,  or  gentlemen  in  at 
tendance  on  the  royal  party,  would  be  introduced, 
which  led,  of  course,  to  agreeable  and  sometimes  ad 
vantageous  acquaintances. 


54  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

I  remember,  on  one  occasion  of  the  Queen's  visiting 
the  theatre,  the  late  Lord  Adolphus  Fitz-Clarence 
(Dolly  Fitz,  as  lie  was  familiarly  called),  was  one  of 
the  royal  party,  who,  at  the  end  of  an  act,  came  behind 
the  scenes.  Lord  Adolphus  was,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  the  son  of  the  late  King  William  IV.,  when 
Duke  of  Clarence,  and  the  celebrated  comedienne^  the 
most  enjouee  and  fascinating  actress  of  her  day,  Mrs. 
JORDAN.  The  royal  duke,  in  his  youth,  had  been  de 
votedly  attached  to  this  lady,  and  they  had  lived  many 
years  together,  (the  law  did  not  allow  of  their  marriage 
—that  is,  she  could  not  be  made  Duchess  of  Clarence,) 
and  the  result  of  their  union  was  several  children. 
State  reasons,  and  the  command  of  George  III.,  sep 
arated  them,  to  the  royal  duke's  great  grief;  and  Mrs. 
Jordan  died  at  Boulogne,  in  France,  in  an  obscure  lodg 
ing,  and  in  indigent  circumstances.  This,  it  must  be 
confessed,  was  not  to  the  honor  of  the  royal  duke,  to 
whom  she  had  been  faithfully  devoted,  and  had  given 
her  best  years,  when  he  could  do  nothing  to  advance 
her  interests  or  her  future,  (for  he  was  strictly  and 
scantily  allowanced  by  his  rigid  old  father,  George 
III.,)  and  had  lavished  on  his  pleasures  and  in  his  so 
ciety,  the  treasures  of  her  charms  and  the  large  earn 
ings  of  her  genius.  But  so  it  was  !  The  duke  mar 
ried  Adelaide  of  Mechlenberg  Strelitz,  afterwards 
Queen  Adelaide ;  and  the  poor  actress  perished  for 
gotten,  abandoned,  and  in  distress,  on  a  foreign 
shore ! 

The  Duke  of  Clarence,  on  the  death  of  his  royal 
brother,  Geo.  IY.,  "  the  finest  gentleman,"  and  greatest 
— not  to  use  too  strong  a  word — roue  of  his  day,  sue- 


A  KING'S  SON.  55 

ceeded  to  the  throne.  The  Queen  of  Comedy  was, 
alas,  no  more ! — she  lay  in  a  country  church-yard  in 
France.  But  her  memory  rose  up  before  her  former 
lover's  eyes ;  and  such  reparation  as  he  could,  he 
made.  The  two  sons  had  been  educated  in  a  suitable 
manner;  the  eldest  of  them  was  now  created,  by  his 
royal  father,  Earl  of  Munster,  and  the  other,  an  officer 
in  the  navy,  was  made  Lord  Adolphus  Fitz-Clarence ; 
a  daughter  was  also  ennobled,  and  married,  I  believe, 
to  an  earl.  The  Earl  of  Munster,  unfortunately,  died 
by  his  own  hand,  a  victim  of  melancholy  gloom  !  On 
the  accession  of  the  present  Queen,  by  the  demise  of 
"William  IV.,  she  appointed  her  cousin  (de  la  main 
gauche)  Lord  Adolphus,  to  the  command  of  her  yacht ; 
which  many  of  my  readers  may  have  seen,  and  been 
aboard  of,  off  Cowes,  perhaps. 

Well,  Dolly  Fitz-Clarence  was  a  Green-Room  visitor, 
on  the  night  in  question.  Now,  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  had  been  the  scene  of  some  of  Mrs.  Jordan's 
greatest  triumphs  in  comedy.  Some  early  memory 
was  awakened  in  his  heart,  and  he  requested  to  be 
shown  to  his  mother's  dressing-room.  He  was  con 
ducted  thither  by  Madame  Yestris,  I  believe,  herself. 
He  entered  the  room  that  had,  some  twenty  or  thirty 
years  before,  been  his  mother's,  in  silence  :  stood 
there,  looked  round  a  moment,  as  if  recalling  old 
recollections,  and  noting  changes  in  the  room,  then, 
shading  his  e}res  with  his  hands,  exclaimed,  in  trem 
bling  accents,  u  My  poor  mother !  " 

Vestris  told  me  this  incident  herself,  and  I  relate 
it,  as  honorable  to  the  heart  of  the  man,  in  whom 
courts  and  royal  favor  had  not  obliterated  the  holiest 


56  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

feeling  of  humanity ;  and  who,  ennobled  by  fortune, 
did  not  blush  to  shed  a  tear  to  the  memory  of  his 
actress-mother. 

Poor  Lord  Adolphus !  he  had  not  a  strong  head, 
but  a  good  heart.     He  died  about  a  year  ago. 
***** 

The  Green-Room,  too,  is  the  place  where  new  plays, 
that  have  been  accepted  by  the  management,  are  read 
by  the  author,  to  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  to 
be  engaged  in  their  performance.  Here,  I  heard 
LEIGH  HUNT  read  his  elegant  and  poetical  play  of  the 
"  Legend  of  Florence,"  (which  was  admirably  played, 
as  he  himself  delighted  to  acknowledge — Miss  Tree, 
a  gentleman  named  Moore,  (a  new  man,)  Anderson, 
and  myself,  were  in  the  cast ;)  and  here,  also,  I  heard 
SHERIDAN  KNOWLES  read  his  play  of  "  Old  Maids," 
the  season  after,  in  which  Mrs.  Nisbett,  Madame  Ves- 
tris,  Charles  Mathews,  and  myself,  played. 

Leigh  Hunt  was  a  charming,  genial,  kind-hearted, 
simple-mannered,  old  gentleman, 

h  soft  as  summer," 

with  rather  long  hair,  tinged  with  gray,  (now  white  as 
snow,  I  am  told,)  with  something  of  a  Lorenzo  de  Me 
dici  look,  softened  ;  and  he  read  clearly  and  pleasingly, 
with  just  emphasis,  but  without  any  aim  at  effect.* 

Sheridan  Knowles,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  hearty, 
rather  boisterous,  old  fellow ;  of  strong,  rather  coarse 
features  ;  reminding  one  of  the  traditionary  portraits 
of  Ben  Jonson ;  and  he  read  his  play  in  a  loud,  rol 
licking  style,  with  marked  emphasis,  a  theatrical  ef 
fect,  and  strong  dashes  of  the  brogue. 

*  Since  this  was  in  type,  Leigh  Hunt  has  closed  his  course,  in  his  75th 
year. 


AUTHORS   AND   ACTORS.  57 

Leigh  Hunt  looked  like  a  poet  of  the  gentle,  ele 
giac  school ;  you  could  well  conceive  him  as  the  teller 
of  the  tale  of  the  Rimini  in  such  sweet  words ;  and 
you  would  not  doubt  that  he  wept  over  them  himself. 

Knowles,  on  the  contrary,  looked  anything  but 
poetical :  brusque  in  manner,  slovenly  in  dress,  absent 
in  mind,  quick  and  rapid  in  utterance,  he  gave  you 
rather  the  idea  of  an  Irish  schoolmaster.  But  he  had 
great  power  as  a  dramatist ;  deep  poetic  feeling ;  and 
a  nervous,  energetic  diction,  when  he  was  not  misled 
by  the  affectation  of  imitating  the  old  dramatists,  into 
an  involved  and  inverted  style,  most  painful  to  the 
actor  to  learn,  unpleasing  in  the  delivery,  and  difficult 
for  an  audience  to  follow.  In  reading  a  play,  he 
could  produce  strong  effects  by  his  earnest  intensity ; 
and  though  you  plight  sometimes  laugh  at  his  abrupt 
ness,  and  his  brogue,  that  would  peep  out,  you  would 
not  unfrequently  catch  yourself  weeping  at  his  touches 
of  natural  pathos,  and  the  deep  feeling  he  knew  how 
to  throw  into  his  tenderest  passages.  The  stage  owes 
him  much  for  what  he  has  done  for  it,  in  spite  of 
what  he  is  doing  against  it,  by  his  pulpit  denuncia 
tions. 

Some  authors,  new  to  the  coulisses,  are  terribly 
embarrassed  on  being  presented  to  the  Green-Eoom, 
to  read  their  play,  under  the  battery  of  so  many 
sparkling  eyes,  and  the  criticism  of  so  many  captious 
ears.  The  actors  are  usually  courteous  in  attention, 
if  not  always  encouraging  in  applause  ;  and  they  sit, 
silently  watchful,  and  picking  out,  by  degrees,  the  part 
that  each  thinks  will  be  allotted  to  him.  The  reading 
being  closed,  J;he  parts  are  then  and  there  distributed 
3* 


58  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

in  manuscript;  and  then  is  made  manifest  the  dis 
appointment  of  some  who  find  the}7  have  not  got  the 
parts  they  expected,  and  the  disgust  of  others,  who 
have  got  just  the  very  parts  that  they  dreaded  and 
detested  in  the  reading.  It  is  then  the  acting  mana 
ger's  business — no  easy  one,  sometimes — to  smooth 
these  difficulties,  and  to  soothe  their  discontented  spirits. 
His  is  the  task  to  persuade  Miss  Jenkins  that  her  part 
will  act  much  better  than  it  reads  ;  and  that  it  is 
("really  now")  a  much  more  effective  part  than  Mrs. 
Timpkins's ;  and, 

u  Consider,  my  dear,  two  changes  of  dress  ;  be 
sides  breeches  in  the  last  act." 

(I  have  explained  what  breeches-parts  are,  in  a  pre 
ceding  page.) 

Then,  the  leading  actor  is  to  be  reconciled  to  his 
part ;  which  he  thinks  very  much  below  his  abilities. 

u  My  dear  sir,"  says  the  manager,  "  it's  just  the 
thing  for  you,  you  will  produce  a  great  effect  in  the 
third  act." 

"  But,"  objects  the  actor,  "  it  falls  off  so  confound 
edly  in  the  fifth  act ;  the  lady  has  it  all  to  herself." 

"  Well,  well,"  says  the  ready  manager,  "  we'll  get 
the  author  to  write  you  up  in  the  iiftli  act ;  and  we'Jl 
give  you  the  tag,  to  speak  :  "  (the  tag  is  the  closing  lines 
of  the  play).  And  so  the  great  man  is  smoothed  down. 

Then  comes  up  an  actor,  third  or  fourth-rate,  but 
thinking  a  great  deal  more  of  himself  than  audience 
or  manager  can  be  brought  to  do,  with  a  very  scanty 
manuscript  in  his  hand,  which  he  opens,  to  show  how 
little  writing  there  is  in  it,  exclaiming  in  a  voice  of 
suffering  innocence — 


PLAUSIBLE    MANAGER.  59 

"  Why,  Mr.  Bartley,  my  part  is  all  cues ;  there 
are  only  ten  lines  to  speak,  and  I  am  on  in  every 
scene,  in  every  act." 

"  It's  not  a  long  part,  my  boy,  I  know,"  (replies 
the  plausible  manager,)  u  but  it's  a  very  responsible 
one  ;  and  you'll  be  splendidly  dressed  !  " 

That  last  consideration  reconciles  the  youth  to  his 
bad  part,  with  the  consolation  that  he  will,  at  all 
events,  have  an  opportunity  of  exhibiting  his  own  good 
parts  to  advantage :  and  he  is  smoothed  over. 

Then  Mrs.  Shady  thinks  that  "  she  really  ought 
not  to  be  called  on  to  play  old  women." 

"  Old  women,  my  dear,"  says  he,  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  Your  part's  not  an  old  woman,  she's  a  young 
dashing  widow,  my  dear  ;  that's  the  reason  I  cast 
you  for  it." 

"  Young !  "  exclaims  Mrs.  Shady,  "  she  must  be 
fifty,  at. least ;  she  has  a  daughter  married." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  says  the  manager,  "fifty  ! 
she's  not  more  than  thirty.  She  was  married  young, 
of  course  ;  and  so  was  her  daughter.  In  the  period 
of  this  play,  and  in  Spain,  girls  married  at  thirteen  : 
so  did  you  and  your  daughter.  Play  it  young,  my 
dear  ;  as  young  as  you  like ;  I've  no  objection  !  " 

And  Mrs.  Shady  collapses,  out-answered,  and 
feeling  herself  the  victim  of  oppression  and  mana 
gerial  injustice ;  (to  say  nothing  of  that  odious  Mrs. 
Middleton,  who  will  triumph  over  her) ;  has  a  good 
cry,  and  goes  home  and  studies  her  part. 


60  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK 


V. 


A  reminiscence  of  Mr.  C.  KEMBLE — A  lesson  in  Mercutio — Gibber's  "Double  Gal 
lant" — Cast — Milton's  Conms — Clandestine  Marriage,  at  Covent  Garden — A 
great  cast  with  little  cry  about  it — Mr.  FAKREN — A  stage  trick— tit-for-tat — Mrs. 
GLOVER— Mrs.  HUMBY— Mrs.  ORGER— A  trialogue— Mrs.  NISBETT  (Lady  Booth- 
by)— Eival  Beauties— A  scene  in  the  Green-Koom— Miss  Foote  (Countess  of 
Harrington)— J.  P.  HARLEY— Miss  F. the  Columbine— NoUesso  de  Thea 
tre— 


I  HAVE  a  very  agreeable  reminiscence  of  the  produc 
tion  of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  with  Shakspere's  text, 
at  Covent  Garden,  showing  the  kindness  of  a  great 
comedian,  now  no  more,  and  the  interest  he  took  in 
the  advancement  of  his  art.  I  allude  to  Mr.  CHARLES 
KEMBLE. 

Every  one  knows  how  fine  he  was  in  Merctttio, 
what  a  gallant,  courtly,  soldierlike,  high  gentleman 
he  was  in  it;  overflowing  with  animal  spirits,  and 
elegant  ladinage,  and  playful  humor.  Mr.  Kemble 
was  always  very  kind  to  me ;  and  therefore  I  was 
not  much  surprised,  though  highly  gratified,  the 
morning  after  I  first  appeared  in  this  character, 
(which  for  only  a  two-months'  stager  was  somewhat 
of  an  undertaking,)  by  Mr.  Kemble's  saying  to  me — 

"  Vandenhoff,  they  tell  me  you  played  Mercutio 
capitally  last  night."  (I  bowed.)  "  I  didn't  see  you 


QUEEN    MAB.  61 

myself;  so  come  ;  come  into  the  second  Green-Room, 
and  speak  Queen  Mab  for  me." 

Here  was  a  proposition  !  To  speak  Queen  Mab, 
in  plain  clothes,  and  in  cold  blood,  at  high-noon,  in 
the  second  Green-Room,  to  the  great  Mercutio  of  his 
day.  I  never  felt  more  inclined  to  bolt  in  my  life. 
However,  he  allowed  me  no  time  to  hesitate,  but  led 
the  way  to  the  designated  spot.  There  was  not  a 
soul  there ;  I  could  not  escape.  Down  sat  Mr.  Kem- 
ble,  saying,  "  Come,  begin." 

I  knew  I  should  botch  it ;  how  could  it  be  other 
wise  ?  "What  was  any  audience  that  any  theatre  could 
bring  together,  to  this  one,  knowing,  experienced, 
sure,  critical,  undeceivable  eye  that  was  now  fixed 
upon  me ;  this  one  ear  so  well  acquainted  witlj  the 
text,  its  delicacies,  and  every  nicety  of  tone  and  ex 
pression  required  to  bring  them  out,  that  now  waited 
for  my  crude  and  unfinished  recitation  !  But  I  scorned 
to  take  refuge  in  excuses,  which  I  knew,  too,  that  he 
would  despise  as  signs  of  imbecility  or  affectation  ;  so 
to  work  I  went,  and  delivered  that  wonderful  overflow 
ing  of  Shakspere's  teeming  fancy  in  the  most  stupid, 
lame,  impotent  and  matter-of-fact  manner  possible  ;  I 
know  I  did ! 

The  kind  old  actor,  and  courteous  gentleman,  listen 
ed  with  a  pleased  smile,  clapped  his  hands  at  the  end, 
and  cried  "  Bravo  !  bravo  !  "  in  that  high,  animating 
pitch  of  voice^which  his  admirers  so  well  remember. 

I  bowed,  and  looked  foolish,  afraid  that  he  would 
fancy  I  really  believed  that  I  merited  his  applause. 
Then  jumping  up,  he  said  :  "  Now,  then,  I'll  speak  it 
for  you  !  "  And  he  placed  me  in  the  seat  he  had  quit- 


62  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ted,  and,  in  his  overcoat — for  it  was  winter — stood  up 
and  recited,  or  rather,  impersonated  Mercutio's  bril 
liant  inspiration,  with  a  grace,  a  point,  a  buoyancy,  an 
abandon,  that  made  me  laugh  and  applaud,  involun 
tarily.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  know  how  you'll 
like  my  style,  but  perhaps  you  may  find  a  hint  or  two 
in  it."  I  thanked  him  sincerely  ;  he  shook  hands,  and 
left  me  with  all  sorts  of  encouraging  expressions. — 
Need  I  say  that  I  treasured  the  lesson  ? 

Gibber's  comedy  of  the  "  Double  Gallant "  was  re 
vived  this  season  with  a  strong  cast,  except  in  the  princi 
pal  part.  Mr.  C.  Mathews's  Atall  was  a  very  water-color 
sketch  ;  it  wanted  breadth,  force,  stamina.  Mathews 
had  not  physique  for  that  audacious,  rollicking  rake ; 
he  was  evidently  all  brag  ;  he  could  not  stand  the  test, 
if  put  to  it.  0.  Mathews  is  perfect  in  little  finical,  man- 
milliner  parts ;  cool,  easy  men  about  town  ;  chevaliers 
cPindustrie,  or  genteel  Jeremy  Diddlers ;  but  he  is 
lost  when  he  has  a  manly  sentiment  to  deliver,  or  a 
gallant  bearing  to  assume.  Trust  me,  heart  goes  for 
a  good  deal  in  acting  !  Farren's  Sir  Solomon,  how 
ever,  and  Mrs.  Nisbett's  Lady  Sadlife,  made  ample 
amends;  Madame  Yestris  was  Clarinda;  Mrs.  "W. 
Lacy  was  Lady  Dainty  ;  Mrs.  Humby,  Wishwell ;  and 
Mrs.  Orger,  Situp  ;  I  played  Careless.  This  revival 
ran  thirteen  nights. 

The  most  brilliant  production  of  the  season,  pre 
senting  the  most  classical,  and  perfectly  artistic  ensem- 
He,  of  all  the  spectacle-pieces  brought  out  under  the 
Yestris  and  Mathews  management,  was  that  of  Mil 
ton's  "  Comus."  It  was  an  honor  to  the  theatre,  the  rep 
resentation  of  this  beautiful  Masque,  breathing  the 


COMUS.  63 

divine  philosophy  of  virtue  in  tones  of  highest  poetry, 
with  all  the  luxury  of  scenic  display,  with  the  accom 
paniments  of  music  sung  by  siren  lips,  and  every  aid 
that  art  could  bring  to  delight  the  senses,  and  to  realize 
the  great  poet's  picture — a  dream  of  Paradise,  broken 
in  upon  by  Comns  and  his  satyr  rout,  and  rebuked 
by  the  chaste  lady,  "  pure,  spotless  and  serene,"  in  the 
midst  of  their  midnight  orgies  and  incantations.  The 
groupings  and  arrangement  of  the  tableaux  were  ad 
mirable,  and  some  of  the  mechanical  effects  were  al 
most  magical  ;  especially  that  exquisite  scene  in  which 
Madame  Yestris,  as  Sabrina,  appeared  at  the  head 
of  the  waterfall,  immersed  in  the  cup  of  a  lily  up  to 
the  shoulders,  and  in  this  fairy  skiff  floated  over  the 
fall  and  descended  to  the  stage !  Mrs.  "W".  Lacy  was 
the  Lady ;  Miss  Eainforth  sang  the  spirit-music 
charmingly ;  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gilbert  and  an  im 
mense  corps  de  lallet,  gave  effect  to  the  revels  of 
Comus  and  his  crew.  There  were  forest  scenes  of  the 
greatest  pictorial  beauty,  equal  in  effect  to  the  finest 
efforts  of  Moreland  or  Gainsborough,  filled  with 
mythological  and  fabulous  beings,  bacchanals,  satyrs, 
• — a  herd  of  anomalies,  half  human,  half  bestial,  inter 
mingled  with  wood-nymphs  and  strange  and  grotesque 
monsters,  forming  a  wild  medley,  and  abandoning 
themselves  to  the  frenzy  of  wine-inspired  mirth,  with 
the  superadded  intoxication  of  a  maddening  dance. 
All  this  was  fully  and  picturesquely  carried  out.  J. 
Cooper  ("the  judicious")  was  not  a  very  magical 
Sorcerer,  it  is  true  ;  but,  if  he  did  not  seem  to  enter 
fully  into  the  spirit  of  u  the  son  of  Circe,"  or  the 
poetry  of  the  language,  yet  he  spoke  Milton's  text  with 


64  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

that  accuracy  and  good  sense  which,  always  distin 
guished  him.  This  production  of  Comus  was  a  thing 
to  see,  as  a  work  of  art,  and  to  remember ;  it  was  truly 
a  poetic  realization  of  a  poet's  creation,  and  did  great 
credit  to  the  taste  and  fancy  of  the  management,  as 
well  as  to  the  artistic  resources  of  the  theatre.  Yet, 
successful  as  it  was,  I  have  been  informed  that  it  did 
little  more  than  repay  its  outlay ! 

The  second  part  I  was  called  on  to  play  at  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  was  Lovewell  in  the  "  Clandestine 
Marriage  " — one  of  the  finest  comedies  in  the  language 
— with  this  cast : 

Mrs.  Heidelberg,  Mrs.  GLOVER.  Betsy,  Mrs.  ORGER. 

Fanny,   Mrs.   WALTER  LACY,  Sir  John,  Mr.  COOPER. 

(the  original  Helen  in  the  Mr.   Sterling,   Mr.    GEOKGE 

Hunchback,  then  Miss  TAT-  BARTLEY. 

LOR).  Lord  Ogleby,  Mr.  FARREN. 

Miss  Sterling,  Mrs.  NISBETT.  Brush,  TOM  GREENE; 

and  every  other  character  well  and  worthily  filled. 
What  would  the  play-going  public  think  of  such  a  cast 
nowadays,  when  we  read  in  large  letters  of 

EXTKAOKDINAEY  CASTS! 

AND 

WONDERFUL    COMBINATIONS!! 

with  frequently  only  one  name  in  the  bill  perfectly 
competent  to  do  full  justice  to  his  part.  Why,  now 
adays,  a  second-rate  actress  would  decline  to  play 
Miss  Sterling,  as  unworthy  of  her  talents,  (Heaven 
save  the  mark !)  which  Mrs.  Nisbett,  the  Queen  ot 
Comedy,  did  not  think  beneath  her.  But  the  present 
is  the  reign  of  pretentious  mediocrity  on  the  stage. 


MR.    FARREN.  65 

Men  and  women  rush  into  the  profession  without  any 
special  natural  gifts,  and  without  previous  education 
for  the  task ;  as  soon  as  they  have  arrived  at  the 
power  of  speaking  a  sentence  without  a  blunder,  think 
themselves  accomplished  actors ;  and  when  the  favor 
of  the  audience  flatters  them  with  around  of  applause, 
they  are  so  elated  as  to  set  up  for  stars,  and  insist  on 
their  names  appearing  in  large  capitals  ! 

In  the  cast  I  have  given  above,  where  nearly 
every  person  was  a  star,  not  one  of  the  names  was 
distinguished  by  any  prominent  type,  or  peculiarity 
of  announcement :  nor  was  there  any  trumpet-blowing 
about  the  wonderful  combination  of  dramatic  talent. 
There  was  no  need ;  it  spoke  for  itself. 

ME.  WILLIAM  FAKKEK 

Setting  aside  the  other  great  names,  Farren's  Lord 
Ogleby  alone  was  worth  the  price  of  a  ticket:  it  is 
a  character  that  has  left  the  stage  with  William. 
Farren.  In  addition  to  his  expression  of  the  lu 
dicrous,  this  great  comedian  had  a  particular  grace 
of  manner,  which,  assisted  by  his  fine  person  and 
elegant  figure,  admirably  qualified  him  for  the  rep 
resentative  of  Lord  Ogleby,  the  dilapidated  beau 
of  the  old  school ;  a  rake  and  a  coxcomb,  it  is  true  ; 
yet  with  a  man's  heart  beating  in  his  worn-out  old 
body,  and  with  the  honorable  feelings,  and  the  scorn 
of  meanness  that  should  distinguish  a  nobleman,  and 
a  gentleman.  Farren's  acting  of  the  scene  with  the 
charming  Fanny,  when  she  confided  to  him  her  affec 
tion  for  Lovewell,  which  the  vain  old  fellow  mistakes 
for  a  covert  declaration  of  her  passion  for  himself, — 


66  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

his  devoted  gallantry,  highbred  courtesy,  and  senile  de 
light,  were  really  beautiful  to  behold.  His  after  disap 
pointment  on  discovering  his  error,  and  that  "the 
adorable  Fanny  "  is  actually  married  to  the  humble 
Lovewell,  was  so  truthfully  expressed,  that  though  we 
laughed  at,  wre  pitied  him  ;  and  our  sympathy  was  en 
tirely  won,  when  Mr.  Sterling,  the  purse-proud  old  cit, 
threatening  to  turn  the  young  couple,  his  daughter 
and  her  husband,  out  of  his  house  ;  Farren,  as  Lord 
Ogleby,  exclaimed,  with  remarkable  dignity,  and  an 
epanchement  de  cceur  that  atoned  for  a  thousand  cox 
combries, — 

"  Then  I  will  receive  them  into  mine." 

The  effect  was  magical,  and  never  failed  to  be  re 
warded  with  instantaneous  applause ;  a  tribute  paid 
to  the  actor's  manner  and  execution,  as  much  as  to  the 
situation  arid  the  sentiment. 

Farren's  Sir  Peter  Teazle  was  equally  excellent ;  I 
have  never  seen  any  representative  of  Sir  Peter  that 
could  compare  with  him  for  a  moment,  in  animation, 
ease,  naturalness  of  manner  and  piquancy  of  effect. 
His  opening  soliloquy  commencing, — 

"  When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  what  is  he  to 
expect?" 

and  his  enumeration  of  the  matrimonial  troubles  that 
beset  him  from  the  very  moment  of  his  marriage — 
nay,  even  before  it,  for  he  says, 

"  We  tiffed  a  little,  going  to  church ;  and  fairly  quarrelled  be 
fore  the  bells  had  done  ringing," — 

his  alternate  quarrels  and  badinage  with  Lady  Teazle, 


OLD    AND    YOUNG    STAGER.  67 

his  uxoriousness,  his  gentlemanly  tone,  and  his  ex 
treme  irritation  and  provocation  when  he  swears, 

"  He  will  make  an  example  of  himself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old 
bachelors ; — 

his  exquisite  sense  of  the  joke  against  Joseph,  with 
his  blank  expression  of  amazement  on  the  turning  of 
that  joke  against  himself  by  the  falling  of  the  screen, — 
made  up,  altogether,  a  highly  elaborate,  yet  naturally 
colored  picture,  not  to  be  surpassed  for  justness  and 
vis  comica,  un defiled  by  grossness  or  exaggeration. 

The  performance  of  the  Clandestine  Marriage  was 
the  first  occasion  of  my  encountering  this  great  artist 
on  the  stage ;  and,  on  entering  to  him  as  Lovewell  in 
the  fourth  act,  I  was  a  little  annoyed  to  find  that  he 
did  not  turn  towards  me,  or  even  look  at  me,  during 
the  scene  ;  but  stood  with  face  turned  full  on  the  au 
dience,  making  his  observations  at  me,  but  to  them. 
Most,  at  least  many  eminent  actors, have  some  particu 
lar  trick  for  engrossing  attention  to  themselves,  some 
times  even  to  the  detriment  of  the  general  effect  of  the 
scene,  which  is  thus  made  one-sided  and  inharmonious. 
Now,  this  was  Farren's  trick;  which,  whenever  he 
thought  he  could,  with  impunity,  he  put  into  play,  for 
monopolizing  the  attention  of  the  house  :  he  ignored, 
as  it  were,  the  actor  in  the  scene,  and  addressed  him 
self  to  the  audience  alone.  In  the  present  instance, 
I  was  a  novice,  and  he  indulged  his  full-front,  foot- 
light  acting,  to  the  height.  Of  course,  1  felt  the  im 
pertinence  of  this  proceeding  ;  and  when  we  repeated 
the  comedy  the  night  but  one  after,  I  resolved  to  pay 
the  old-stager  in  his  own  coin,  and  see  how  he  liked 


68 

it.  Accordingly,  when  it  came  to  my  cue  in  the 
fourth  act,  I  entered  hastily,  as  the  stage-direction 
orders,  and  addressed  his  lordship  without  looking  at 
him,  rather  turned  away  from  him,  with  my  face  full 
upon  the  audience  :  thus  I  stood  on  the  right  hand  : 
in  the  same  way,  on  the  left  hand,  with  several  yards 
between  us,  stood  Lord  Ogleby,  in  a  state  of  exalta 
tion  at  his  recent  interview  with  Fanny ;  and  the  dia 
logue  went  on  between  two  people  who  seemed  not 
to  be  aware  of  the  presence  of  each  other. 

Loiewell.  (Not  looking  at  him.}  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon  ; 
are  you  alone,  my  lord  ? 

Lord  Ogle.  (Elated?)  No,  my  lord,  I  am  not  alone  j  I  am  in 
company,  the  best  company. 

Loveicett.  My  lord ! 

Lord  Ogle.  I  never  was  in  such  exquisite  enchanting  company 
since  my  heart  first  conceived,  or  my  senses  tasted  pleasure. 

Lovewell.  Where  are  they,  my  lord  ? 

Lord  Ogle.  In  my  mind,  sir. 

Lovewell.  What  company  have  you  there,  my  lord  ? 

Lord  Ogle.  My  own  ideas,  sir,  which  so  crowd  upon  my  im 
agination,  and  kindle  in  it  such  a  delirium  of  ecstasy,  that  wine, 
music,  poetry,  all  combined,  and  each  in  perfection,  are  but  mere 
mental  shadows  of  my  felicity. 

Still,  neither  character  looked  at  the  other,  but 
addressed  himself  to  the  front  of  the  house.  Conse 
quently,  the  dialogue  thus  independently  and  diver 
gently  given,  in  spite  of  Farren's  animation,  and  ex 
altation  of  manner,  fell  flat  upon  the  audience,  who 
were  puzzled,  and  whose  attention  was  distracted  by 
the  apparent  anomaly.  Farren  finding  his  usual  points 
fall  pointless,  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  to  sidle  to 
wards  me,  in  a  fidgetty  and  nervous  manner.  On  we 


TIT   FOB   TAT.  69 

went  again  on  the  same  plan  of  mutual  aversion  ;  the 
scene  grew  flatter  and  flatter ;  and  Fan-en,  always 
covetous  of  applause,  grew  more  and  more  nervous, 
till  he  began,  at  last,  to  trip  and  falter  in  the  words 
of  his  part.  As  his  irritability  increased,  he  turned 
towards  me,  as  if  to  inquire  by  a  look,  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  insensibility  of  the  audience;  then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  became  aware  of  the  fact  that 
my  face  was  turned  entirely  away  from  him,  and  that, 
after  his  own  fashion,  I  had  been  delivering  my  share 
of  the  dialogue  to  the  front  of  the  house,  without  any 
notice  of  him  at  all.  This  put  the  cotnble  to  his  an 
noyance  ;  I  heard  his  ominous  sniff  (a  trick  he  had), 
I  heard  his  gradually  approaching  step,  I  felt  his  hand 
on  my  arm  as  he  turned  me  towards  him,  with  the 
words  of  the  text  which  seemed  peculiarly  appro 
priate, — 

"  "What's  the  matter,  Lovewell  ?  thou  seemest  to  have  lost  thy 
faculties ; " 

and  for  the  rest  of  the  scene  he  never  turned  away 
from  nie,  but,  as  a  gentleman  should  do,  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  person  to  whom  lie  was  speaking.  I  did 
the  same,  the  vraiseniblance  of  the  scene  was  restored, 
and  all  went  right. 

Eut  Farren  was  boiling,  within  ;  and  the  moment 
we  were  past  the  wing,  and  off  the  stage,  he  broke  out, 

"  Good  heavens !  Mr.  Yandenhoff,  I  never  saw 
such  a  thing  in  my  life ;  you  entirely  ruined  rny 
scene,  spoilt  every  point." 

"  Indeed  !  "  I  replied,  very  coolly,  "  how  so,  Mr. 
Farren  ?  I  spoke  the  text,  and  gave  you  every  cue !  " 


70  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  Good  gracious,  yes  ;  but  you  turned  away  from 
me,  sir  ;  you  never  looked  at  me  ;  you  spoke  entirely 
to  the  audience  !  " 

"Why,  so  did  you,  Mr.  Farren!  I  only  copied 
you.  You  know  I  am  a  novice,  and  I  thought  I 
could  not  do  better  than  form  myself  on  the  model 
of  the  greatest  comedian  of  the  day  ! " 

A  grunt  was  his  only  reply,  but  the  retort  had  its 
effect;  he  never  gave  me  his  side-front,  after  that 
night,  and  we  always  got  on  very  well  together. 

He  was  the  greatest  comedian  in  his  line  I  ever 
saw  ;  but  his  egotism  was  equal  to  his  talent.  It  was 
really  sublime  in  its  self-exaltation.  In  the  profession, 
he  had  the  sobriquet  of  the  Cock  Salmon.  It  was 
said  that  having  demanded — of  Bonn,  I  think — £60 
per  week  salary,  on  the  manager's  remonstrating  on 
the  largeness  of  the  demand,  Farren  replied, — 

"  If  there's  only  one  cock-salmon  in  the  market, 
you  must  pay  the  price  for  it.  /am  the  cock-salmon." 

So,  when  some  one  asked  him  in  the  Green-Room,  if 
he  had  been  to  see  the  celebrated  French  comedian, 
Bouffe,  at  the  St.  James's  Theatre,  many  of  whose 
characters  Farren  played  in  translation,  and  played 
admirably — 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  Salmon,  "  let  him  come  and 
see  me !  Let  Bouffe  come  and  see  William  Far 
ren." 

lie  was,  in  truth,  a  finished  artist,  well  studied,  and 
perfect  in  all  the  details  of  his  profession.  Not  so 
ready  in  conception  as  happy  in  execution,  his  first 
reading  of  a  new  part  was  generally  unsatisfactory, 
and  imperfectly  developed.  He  was,  as  I  have  said 


MBS.   GLOVEE.  71 

elsewhere,  always  very  nervous  on  the  first  night  or 
two  of  a  new  play,  and  dared  not  give  himself  free 
scope,  till  he  was  quite  easy  in  the  words  and  the 
action  of  every  scene ;  and  then  he,  as  it  were,  grew 
to  the  character,  and  elaborated  the  creation  to  the 
highest  point  of  excellence.  Those  who  have  ever  seen 
him  play  Sir  Harcourt  in  "  London  Assurance,"  know 
to  what  a  high  pitch  of  ease  and  polish  he  could  carry 
his  execution.  It  wras  the  perfection  of  art. 

Mr.  Farren  still  lives,  retired  from  the  profession. 
The  last  time  I  saw  him,  three  years  ago,  he  was 
walking  in  Regent  street,  not  certainly  as  erect  as  a 
few  years  ago ;  but  a  fine,  handsome,  white-haired, 
clear-complexioned  old  gentleman — a  fine  echantillon 
of  the  ancien  regime, — a  beautiful  picture  of  age — 
looking  like  an  old  nobleman  more  than  an  old  actor. 

MRS.  GLOYER, 

whose  name  appears  in  the  above  cast,  was  an 
actress  of  Farren's  day :  they  had  flourished  and 
run  their  course  together.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Betterton  ;  she  trod  the  boards  with  almost 
infant  feet  ;  her  earliest  recollections  must  have 
arisen  in  a  theatre,  and  almost  her  last  hour  of  con 
sciousness  was  on  the  stage.  She  was  a  great  actress : 
good  in  every  thing,  but  greatest  in  a  certain  line  of 
characters, — the  dashing,  volatile  widow,  (Racket  or 
Widow  Green,)  the  affectedly  good-natured,  but  truly 
malignant  ditto,  Mrs.  Candour ;  or  the  vulgar  and  ig 
norant  ditto,  as  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Mrs.  Heidelberg. 
In  her  youth,  she  had  played  with  applause  all  the 
principal  characters  in  comedy,  and  some  in  tragedy 


72  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

(but  she  was  weak  in  tragedy),  with  John  and  Charles 
Kemble,  Cooke,  Lewis,  Elliston  ; — she  had  been  asso 
ciated  with  all  the  great  lights  of  the  stage  in  the  early 
part  of  this  century,  and  she  was  one  of  them  herself, 
She  had  had  a  long  career  of  popularity  at  Drury  Lane. 
Covent  Garden,  and  the  Haymarket  theatres,  always 
being  engaged  at  one  or  other  of  them.  She  was  essen 
tially  of,  and  bound  up  with,  the  stage  ;  her  manner  in 
daily  life  smacked  of  her  profession  :  it  was  large,  au 
tocratic,  oracular.  She  took  her  final  leave  of  the 
stage  at  upwards  of  seventy  years  of  age,  in  the  charac 
ter  of  Mrs.  Heidelberg,  at  a  farewell  benefit  given  to  her 
at  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  1851.  Farewell,  indeed !  She 
had  been  failing  some  time  ;  and  the  excitement  was 
too  much  for  her  weak  state.  How  she  ever  got  through 
the  five  acts  was  miraculous.  She  was  almost  uncon 
scious  as  the  curtain  fell ;  and,  I  believe,  never  spoke 
intelligibly  after  she  was  borne  from  the  theatre ! 

In  private,  she  was  a  broad,  hearty-mannered 
woman,  quick-tempered,  and  not  unfrequently  in 
dulging  in  strokes  of  sarcastic  bitterness  ;  so  that,  in 
the  Green-Room,  her  tongue  was  held  by  young  mem 
bers  of  the  profession  in  some  dread,  and  was  not  en 
tirely  devoid  of  terror  even  to  old-stagers. 

A  conversation  is  reported  between  Mrs.  Glover, 
Mrs.  Orger,  and  Mrs.  Ilumby,  the  two  latter  younger 
women  than  the  former,  but  experienced,  and  rusees  as 
well  as  passees, — a  conversation  characteristic  of  the 
trio.  The  subject  was  Charles  Mathews's  then  recent 
marriage  with  Madame  Yestris  : — 

u  They  say,"  said  Humby,  with  her  quaint  air  of 
assumed  simplicity,  "  that  before  accepting  him,  Yes- 


MRS.    NISBETT.  73 

tris  made  a  full  confession  to  him  of  all  her  lovers ! 
What  touching  confidence  !  "  she  added,  archly. 

"  What  needless  trouble  ! !  "  said  Orger,  drily. 

"  What  a  wonderful  memory ! ! !  "  wound  up  Glo 
ver,  triumphantly. 

MRS.  OTSBETT,  (LADY  BOOTHBY,) 

who  lent  the  aid  of  her  brilliant  talents  to  the  above 
cast  of  the  "  Clandestine  Marriage,"  merits  a  special  tri 
bute  of  admiration  and  regret :  for  she,  too,  is  no  more. 
So  are  the  lights  of  the  stage  extinguished,  one  by  one, 
and  darkness  gathers  o'er  the  fading  scene ! 

"  The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of." 

Mrs.  Nisbett's  real  name  was  Macnamara;  she  as 
sumed  that  of  Mordaunt  as  a  nom  de  tMatre,  and 
under  that  name,  two  sisters  of  hers  were  also  candi 
dates  for  dramatic  honors,  but  with  scant  success. 

Miss  MORDAUNT  commenced  her  theatrical  ca 
reer  at  a  very  early  age.  It  has  been  said  that  she 
wras  the  original,  from  whom  Thackeray  drew  his  Miss 
Fotheringay,  the  daughter  of  old  Costigan,  in  Penden- 
nis  ;  and  there  are  some  traits  and  incidents  that  seem 
to  give  confirmation  to  the  idea.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she 
herself  told  me,  walking  on  the  parade  at  St.  Leo 
nard's,  on  the  south  coast  of  England — where  she  re 
tired,  and  lived  in  a  very  elegant  cottage  orne  during 
the  latter  years  of  her  life, — she  herself  told  me  that 
she  never  had  six  weeks'  schooling  in  her  life,  and 
that  she  played  Lady  Constance  in  "  King  John,"  in 
a  country  theatre,  at  thirteen  years  of  age ! 
4 


74  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

She  first  appeared  on  the  London  stage  in  1828,  at 
Covent  Garden  Theatre,  in  the  character  of  the  Widow 
Cheerly  in  the  "Soldier's  Daughter:"  her  success 
was  instantaneous,  and  was  sealed  by  subsequent  per 
formances.  Her  beauty,  elegance,  gayety,  gushing 
spirits,  and  talents,  very  soon  surrounded  her  with  ad 
mirers;  among  whom  Captain  Nisbett,  of  the  Guards, 
a  gentleman  of  good  family,  fortune,  and  distinguished 
position  in  the  fashionable  world,  carried  off  the  palm, 
was  accepted  as  her  husband,  and  immediately  on  his 
marriage,  withdrew  his  fascinating  wife  from  the  thea 
tre.  Capt.  Kisbett  was  a  fine,  young,  dashing  fellow, 
of  great  animal  spirits,  passionately  fond,  and  justly 
proud,  of  the  lovely  creature  he  had  made  his  own. 
He  was  happy  only  in  her  society ;  in  her  he  found 
not  only  all  the  attractions  that  could  secure  his  heart 
and  grace  his  home,  but  a  congenial  spirit,  sympa 
thizing  in  all  his  tastes,  and  falling  in  to  all  his  pleas 
ures  and  amusements.  He  was  never  weary  of  parad 
ing  her  to  his  friends ;  to  his  idea,  no  company  was 
attractive,  no  party  was  complete — not  even  the  din 
ners  which  he  gave  to  his  brother  officers  and  military 
associates — unless  she  presided,  or,  at  least,  adorned  it 
with  her  presence.  Thus  she  was  thrown  a  great  deal 
into  men's  society  by  her  husband's  fondness ;  and  so, 
perhaps,  contracted  some  freedoms  of  manner  and 
frankness  of  expression,  not  exactly  vulgar,  but 
mannish,  which  always  remained  with  her  in  after 
life,  and  gave  rise  sometimes  to  a  more  unfavorable 
construction  than  they  or  she  really  merited  :  so  that 
people  sometimes  set  her  down  as  indiscreet,  when 
she  was  only  thoughtless.  She  was  a  gay,  volatile, 


THE   WIDOW.  75 

impulsive  creature  that  every  body  liked,  and  who  was 
easily  carried  away  by  her  love  for  her  husband  to  take 
up  his  style  of  manner  and  conversation.  They  were 
devoted  to  each  other.  I  have  heard  her  say,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  drawing  Capt.  Nisbett's  miniature 
from  her  bosom, — "I never  loved  \)\it  once;  now  I 
can  only  like  !  "  She  lost  him  when  their  happiness 
was  at  its  height,  their  harmony  most  perfect.  He 
was  thrown  from  his  phaeton,  the  wheel  passed  over 
his  thigh,  and  amputation  and  death  were  the  fatal 
results. 

On  his  death,  the  young  and  fascinating  widow 
found  that  his  affairs  were  not  in  such  a  state  as  to 
allow  her  to  continue  her  then  style  of  living ;  and 
though  she  ultimately,  some  years  after,  came  into 
possession  of,  I  believe,  £10,000  or  £15,000  sterling, 
yet  she  found  herself,  at  the  moment,  thrown  upon 
her  own  resources  for  her  future  maintenance,  unless 
she  chose  to  accept  some  one  of  the  many  aspirants  for 
her  hand.  This,  with  her  wound  still  fresh  and  bleed 
ing,  she  shrank  from  doing;  and  nothing  remained 
for  her,  therefore,  but  to  return,  however  unwillingly, 
to  that  profession  which  opened  its  arms  to  receive 
her;  in  the  practice  of  which  she  would  find  imme 
diate  distraction  from  her  grief,  and  occupation  for 
her  mind,  and  of  which  she  was  destined  to  be  a  liv 
ing  ornament.  * 

O,  glorious  prerogative  of  genius!  all-sufficient 
for  itself;  a  kingdom  to  its  possessor,  a  crown,  an 
independence! — setting  its  heaven-gifted  owner  be 
yond  the  patronage  of  titled  arrogance,  or  purse-proud 
wealth  I 


76  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

This  was  Mrs.  Nisbett's  dower;  she  needed  no  other 
from  her  husband  or  his  family ;  the  public  opened 
their  arms,  hearts,  and  purses  to  her ;  she  reappeared 
with  increased  eclat  as  the  Widow  Cheerly ;  and  the 
position  was  soon  conceded  to  her  of  the  first  come 
dienne  on  the  English  stage.  It  was  at  this  time, 
1835,  that  I  first  saw  her  playing  a  starring  engage 
ment  at  the  Liverpool  Theatre ;  and,  (as  Burke  said 
of  a  much  higher  actress,  in  a  much  loftier  and  more 
tragic  scene,)  "Surely,  never  lighted  on  this  orb, 
which  she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  delightful 
vision." 

She  was,  at  that  time,  slight  and  fragile,  yet  grace 
ful  in  figure ;  all  life,  sparkle,  and  animation — 

"  as  if  Joy  itself 
"Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  Tier  shape." 

Her  laugh  was  a  peal  of  music ;  it  came  from  her 
heart,  and  went  direct  to  yours  ;  nothing  could  resist 
it ;  it  was  contagious  as  a  fever,  catching  as  a  fire, 
flashing  as  the  lightning !  An  anchorite  would  have 
joined  in  it,  without  asking  why  ;  St.  Anthony  himself 
would  have  chuckled  in  accord  with  her,  had  he  heard 
its  silver  echo  in  the  wilderness !  It  was  as  merry  as 
joy-bells  for  a  wedding ;  as  exciting  to  the  nerves  as 
sleigh-bells  on  a  frosty  morning,  when  the  bright  sun 
glitters  on  the  crisp  snow  which  crackles  beneath  the 
horse's  feet ;  It  would  "  create  a  soul  in  the  ribs  of 
death  ! "  At  its  sound,  the  hypochondriac  forgot  his 
griefs;  and  thick  -blooded,  lymphatic  dullards,  im 
pregnable  in  Boeotian  inertness, — 


MRS.  NISBETT'S  LAUGH.  77 

"  that  will  not  smile, 
Though  Nestor  s\vear  the  jest  be  laughable," 

would  be  roused  to  a  spasmodic  action  of  the  cach- 
inatory  muscles,  by  the  electric  battery  of  Nisbett's 
thrilling  mirth  ! 

I  have  seen  her  set  a  whole  theatre,  when  the 
audience  seemed  unusually  immovable,  in  a  delirium 
of  gayety,  by  the  mere  contagion  of  her  ringing  laugh  ; 
gurgling,  at  first,  like  the  throat  of  a  canary-bird, 
swelling  with  unuttered  song, — anon,  growing  into 
full,  firm  tones  like  the  blackbird's  notes, — anon,  clear 
and  sparkling  like  the  trill  of  the  lark, — then  gradually 
subsiding  to  a  muffled  cadence,  only  to  burst  out 
again  into  stronger,  louder,  but  still  musical  gushings 
of  irrepressible  melody;  running  through  the  whole 
diatonic  scale  of  Ha-ha-has!  till  every  soul  in  the 
house  felt  the  spell,  gave  themselves  up  to  its  influence, 
and  joined  in  a  universal  laughing-chorus  ! 

This  it  was,  this  mirth-inspiring  power,  that 
crowned  her  triumphs  in  Constance  in  the  "  Love 
Chase,"  and  Lady  Gay  Spanker  in  "  London  Assur 
ance."  They  were  both  written  for  her,  and  she 
topped  them  both.  I  have  seen  many  actresses  try 
and  try  hard  at  them ;  to  her,  alone,  it  was  no  effort : 
they  wore  their  mirth  as  part  of  the  costume  for  the 
character  ;  Nisbett  came  fashioned  thus  from  nature's 
hand,  and  THALIA  dropped  her  mantle  on  her  favorite's 
shoulders ! 

Yet,  singularly  enough,  she  had  a  weakness  for 
tragedy,  a  penchant  for  sentimental  parts,  and  a  de 
cided  conviction  that  she  shone  in  them. 

Like  the  Fotheringay,  she  delighted  in  the  sorrows 


78  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

of  Mrs.  Haller ;  the  distresses  of  Pauline  were  nuts  to 
her ;  and  the  more  tears  she  could  be  called  on  to 
shed,  the  more  satisfied  she  was.  As  Tony  Lumpkin 
says  of  Miss  Neville's  affection  for  heart-rending 
romances,  "The  more  she  cried,  the  more  she  liked 
them ! " 

This  taste  for  the  pathetic,  she  could  only  indulge 
in  the  country,  where,  as  a  star,  she  could  shine  as 
she  pleased,  and  be  a  watery  planet,  if  she  chose. 
In  London,  she  was  not  allowed  so  to  pervert  herself; 
the  manager  would  not  be  a  party  to  the  transforma 
tion  of  Euphrosyne  into  a  weeping  statue — 

«  A  Niobe  all  tears  "— 

and  so  she  was  compelled  to  maintain  her  empire  over 
hearts  by  lighter  chains.  She  always,  however,  at 
heart  believed,  that  her  forte  lay  in  sentimental  tra 
gedy,  and  that  she  was  a  very  ill-used  woman,  in  not 
being  permitted  to  indulge  her  inclination  ! 

Though  Mrs.  Nisbett  was  engaged,  at  a  large  salary, 
by  Madame  Yestris,  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  it 
must  not  be  imagined  that  there  was  any  particular 
love  between  them.  It  is  true,  they  kissed  when  they 
met,  and  called  each  other  "My  dear," — but,  as 
Crabtree  says,  "  That's  neither  here  nor  there."  Yes 
tris  probably  detested  Nisbett  for  her  superior  good 
fortune,  and  superior  position  in  life ;  and  Nisbett, 
without  being  naturally  more  malicious  than  ladies  in 
general,  instinctively  felt  an  aversion,  where  she  knew 
no  good  feelings  were  felt  towards  her.  Occasionally, 
these  little  secret  fires — the 

"  animorum  coelestium  ira>  " — 


GREEN-ROOM   SCENE.  79 

would  break  out  from  beneath  the  "cinerem  dolosum" 
of  smiles  and  courtesies,  and  the  effect  was  sometimes 
amusing  to  the  lookers-on. 

Let  me  give  an  instance,  of  which  I  was  a  witness, 
and,  partly,  an  actor  in : 

The  third  part  I  played  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre, 
was  Mercutio,  in.  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  which  was  re 
vived  with  great  splendor  and  picturesqueness  of 
effect,  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  Mrs.  Nisbett's 
sister,  Miss  Jane  Mordaunt,  in  the  character  of  Juliet. 
J.  R.  ANDERSON  was  the  Romeo,  and  the  play  was 
generally  well  acted,  with  this  one  flagrant  exception, 
that  the  Juliet  was  a  failure ;  and  Miss  E.  MONTAGUE 
was,  on  after  representations,  substituted  in  the  part. 

This  was,  of  course,  deeply  mortifying  to  Mrs. 
Nisbett,  who, — for  she  was  no  judge  of  tragic  excel 
lence, — had  built  the  loftiest  hopes  on  her  sister's 
success. 

Now  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Nisbett  had,  at  the 
same  time,  another  cause  of  distress  that  weighed 
upon  her.  She  was  very  closely  liee  by  friendship 
with  FEARGUS  O'CONNOR,  the  Irish  agitator;  (not  Dan 
O'Connell,  mind — he  was  "  a  mighty  different "  kind 
of  an  agitator !)  and  O'Connor,  and  a  Chartist  dema 
gogue  named  Frost,  had  got  themselves  snugly 
confined  in  York  Castle,  with  a  Government  prosecu 
tion  hanging  over  their  heads,  for  seditious  and  re 
volutionary  speeches  to  a  mob. 

"With  these  two  causes  for  grief  upon  her  spirits, 
she  came  down  to  the  Green-Room  the  day  after  her 
sister's  failure,  looking  very  much  depressed,  and, 
even  through  her  veil,  her  inflamed  eyes  showing 


80  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

traces  of  recent  tears.  Everybody  was,  of  course, 
full  of  silent  sympathy  for  her,  showing  itself  rather 
in  manner  than  in  words.  But  Vestris  could  not 
resist  the  opportunity  of  having  a  fling  at  "  a  rival 
in  distress ! " 

There  were  several  persons  in  the  Green-Room — 
Mrs.  Orger,  Mr.  Farren,  Mr.  Cooper  (I  think),  myself 
and  others  :  Mrs.  Nisbett  sat  a  little  apart,  on  my 
right  hand,  with  veil  down,  and  sadly  silent.  Yestris 
led  the  conversation  to  Frost,  the  Chartist  riots,  and 
the  coining  trials.  She  did  not  mention  O'Connor  by 
name,  but  she  made  it  sufficiently  clear  that  he  was 
the  principal  object  of  her  attack  ;  and  it  was  through 
him  that  her  shot  at  poor  Nisbett  was  to  be  aimed. 
She  let  loose  a  torrent  of  invective  against  Chartists 
and  Radicals  generally ;  winding  up  with  this  com 
prehensive  condemnation. 

"  I  never"  said  she,  with  pointed  malice,  "  knew  any 
man  on  the  radical  side  who  was  really  a  gentleman  !  " 

Poor  Nisbett  winced  in  her  corner;  I  know 
not  whether  any  look  of  sympathy,  or  any  expression 
of  face  of  mine,  called  Madame's  attention  to  me ; 
but  she  added  in  the  most  marked  manner  (for  I  was 
known  to  have  a  decided  leaning  towards,  at  least 
liberal  opinions  in  politics), 

"  Did  you,  Mr.  Vandenhoff  3 " 

Now  I  felt  the  malicious  impertinence  of  this  ap 
peal,  and  I  resolved  to  rebuke  it.  To  gain  a  moment's 
time  to  mature  my  thought,  I  asked,  as  if  I  had  not 
heard  her  question, — "  Did  I  what  ?  " 

She  repeated — "  Did  you  ever  know  a  man  really 
a  gentleman,  on  the  radical  side  in  politics  ?  " 


THE   RETORT-COURTEOUS.  81 

Now  Vestris  had  let  her  desire  to  wound,  make 
her  overlook,  like  a  bad  swordsman,  her  own  vulne 
rable  point :  she  had,  for  the  moment,  entirely  for 
gotten,  (no  wonder,  perhaps,  among  so  many !)  a 
liaison  of  hers  in  former  years,  with  a  certain  well- 
known  T.  D.,  a  decided  radical  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  and,  consequently,  she  was  put  entirely 
hors  de  combat ;,  when  I  repeated  her  question, 

"  Did  I  ever  know  a  radical  a  gentleman?"  and 
then  added, 

"  O  yes  ;  and  you  too." 

"  Who,  who  ? "  she  said,  "  name  one." 

"  TOM  DUNCOMBE  !  "  I  coolly  replied,  looking  quite 
unconscious  of  intention. 

It  was  a  bombshell  in  the  enemy's  camp.  The 
effect  was  foudroyant !  No  one  spoke — scarcely 
seemed  to  breathe — Farren  alone  gave  his,  HM  !  the 
rest  were  silent.  Vestris  fumbled  with  the  keys  of 
the  wardrobe,  that  always  hung  by  her  girdle,  and, 
very  shortly,  left  the  Green-Room. 

Then  Nisbett  threw  back  her  veil,  started  up,  put 
her  arms  round  my  neck,  exclaiming,  "  God  bless 
you  !  "  and  burst  into  tears. 

From  that  time  we  were  good  friends. 

She  kept  a  handsome  close-carriage  and  pair, 
living  in  good  style  at  Denham  cottage,  Hammer 
smith,  anticipating,  probably,  the  amount  which  she 
expected,  and  afterwards  did  receive,  in  right  of  her 
widowhood.  She  was  a  good  creature,  supported 
mother  and  sisters,  and  educated  her  brothers,  one 
of  whom  was  called  to  the  bar,  and  is  now  in  prac 
tice  in  London.  She  was  indeed  devoted  to  her 
4* 


82  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

family,  having  no  children  of  her  own,  and  was  lavish 
in  her  generosity  to  them.  In  goodness  of  heart, 
gayety  and  liberality  of  disposition,  as  well  as  in  the 
peculiarity  of  her  temper  and  the  bent  of  her  talents, 
she  seems  to  have  much  resembled  the  celebrated 
Peg  Woffington,  of  Garrick's  day  :  in  respectability 
of  character  and  social  position,  she  was  vastly 
superior  to  her  kind-hearted,  but  reckless  predeces 
sor. 

By  her  marriage  with  SIR  WILLIAM  BOOTHBY,  a 

baronet,  very  much  her  senior  in  years,  she  became 
entitled  to  be  addressed  as  "  your  ladyship  ;  "  and  she 
was,  by  her  second  husband,  again  withdrawn  from 
the  stage,  to  preside  over  his  house.  The  enamored 
old  gentleman  did  not,  however,  enjoy  his  felicity  more 
than  about  a  twelvemonth ;  and  she  was  again  a 
widow,  in  the  maturity  of  her  charms.  The  income 
she  was  entitled  to  by  her  marriage  settlement  with 
Sir  "William,  was  not,  in  her  ideas,  sufficient  for  her 
expenditure,  with  all  the  family  claims  that  she  felt 
called  upon  to  answer ;  and,  after  a  decent  period  of 
mourning,  she  again  returned  to  her  profession,  was 
again  warmly  received,  arid  played  at  the  Haymarket, 
and  Dairy  Lane  Theatres,  under  the  popular  name 
by  which  she  had  won  the  affections  of  the  London 
public,  and  by  which  she  will  be  long  remembered 
— Mrs.  NISBETT. 

I  often  endeavored  to  persuade  her  to  visit  this 
country,  which  I  assured  her  would  prove  an  El  Dorado 
to  her  ;  she  had  a  great  desire  to  follow  my  counsel ; 
but  family  considerations  prevented  her,  and  so  New 
York  never  saw  her.  I  have  always  regretted  that 


ROSAMOND'S  BOWER.  83 

it  was  so;  she  would  have  been  the  most  popular 
favorite  that  ever  visited  the  country  ;  and  it  would 
have  been  a  great  advantage  to  the  public  taste  to 
have  witnessed  the  performance  of  the  greatest 
Comedienne  of  the  English  stage.  It  would  have 
shown,  at  least,  that  the  extreme  of  frankness,  gayety, 
and  the  abandon  of  a  mirthful  nature,  are  quite  com 
patible  with  grace  and  elegant  manners;  and  that 
an  actress  of  taste  and  a  true  artist,  can  give  full 
scope  to  her  animal  spirits,  her  sense  of  humor,  and 
her  ambition  to  please,  without  descending  to  affecta 
tion  on  one  hand,  or  vulgarity  on  the  other ;  and  let 
me  say,  this  would  be  a  useful  lesson  to  some  of  high 
pretensions. 

Ill  health,  at  length,  compelled  her  to  retire, 
temporarily  as  she  thought,  from  the  mimic  scene  ; 
and  she  fixed  her  residence,  as  I  have  said,  at  St. 
Leonards  on  the  South  coast.  A  cottage — or  rather  it 
should  be  called,  from  its  handsome  dimensions  and 
style,  a  country  mansion — was  built  for  her,  which  she 
called  Rouge-mont,  from  its  elevated  situation,  and 
the  profusion  of  red  roses  that  grew  about  it.  I  used 
to  tell  her  that  she  wished  to  suggest  Rosamond's 
bower  by  the  name.  In  this  elegant  retreat  she  died, 
peacefully,  at  about  forty-eight  years  of  age,  attended 
to  the  last  by  her  old  mother,  whom  she  had  al 
ways  loved  so  well,  and  to  whom  she  had  ever 
shown  more  than  a  daughter's  duty  and  protecting 
care. 

In  person,  she  was  above  the  medium  height,  of 
a  graceful  form,  and  brunette  complexion,  with  a 
nose  slightly  retrousse^  gipsy-like,  almost.  She  always 


84  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  Cleopatra,  Egypt's  black- 
browed  Queen. 

Like   Milton's  nymph,  Euphrosyne,  in  her  train 
came 

Jest  and  youthful  jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles. 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek 
And  love  to  live  in  dimples  sleek  ! 

Gone !  passed  away  ! — 

Stilled  is  that  thrilling  voice,  hushed  that  ringing 
laugh,  never  to  wake  an  echo  more  ! 


MISS  FOOTE,  (COUNTESS  OF  HARRINGTON.) 

I  have  mentioned  Miss  Foote,  (Countess  of  Harring 
ton,)  and  I  dwell  on  the  recollection  with  pleasure.  She 
had  left  the  stage  some  years  before  I  trod  on  it,  to  grace 
a  more  elevated  sphere ;  I  never,  therefore,  had  the 
delight  of  playing  with  her.  As  a  boy,  I  have  seen  her 
often  at  the  Liverpool  Theatre,  in  Rosalind, — and  what 
a  fascinating  Rosalind  she  was ! — Annette,  in  the 
"  Little  Jockey,"  (how  she  drove  the  fellows  wild  with 
her  archness,  her  playfulness,  her  vivacity,  her 
breeches  and  top-boots — heaven  save  the  mark! — and 
her  singing  of 

" The  boy  in  yellow  wins  the  day! ") 

and  in  Letitia  Hardy,  in  which  she  was  a  zephyr,  a 
wave  of  the  sea !     Perhaps  one  of  the  most  bewitch- 


MARIA    FOOTE.  85 

ing  things  she  did,  was  Kate  O'Brien,  in  "  Perfection," 
or  the  "  Lady  of  Munster."  My  lather  used  to  play 
Charles  Paragon  to  her.  Ye  gods,  how  I  envied 
him  !  How  I  wished  myself  a  man,  that  I  might  be 
able  to  act  with  her  !  How  I  watched  at  the  stage- 
door,  after  the  play  was  over,  to  see  her  step  into  her 
carriage  !  (she  had  the  prettiest  little  foot  in  the 
world  ;  and  her  leg  !  —  oh  !)  how  I  longed  to  offer  my 
hand  to  assist  her,  and  dared  not  !  how  I  wrote  to  her 
for  an  order  for  the  theatre,  on  purpose  to  get  her  au 
tograph  !  how  delighted  I  was  when  she  sent  it  to 
me  —  an  elegant,  ladylike,  tapering,  graceful  signature, 
(I  have  it  yet  !)  — 


How  I  kissed  it  !  how  I  got  one  of  the  actresses  to 
present  me  to  her,  and  how  I  blushed  and  trembled 
(I  was  about  thirteen)  when  she  spoke  to  me  and 
smiled  ;  and  how  insulted  I  felt  when  I  heard  her  say, 
aside  to  my  introducer,  that  I  was  "  a  fine  boy  !  "  All 
this  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  You  must  imag 
ine  it,  reader  ;  and  imagine,  if  you  can,  what  a  crea 
ture  she  was  !  It  was  not  that  she  was  so  beautiful,  — 
I  have  seen  twenty  more  beautiful  women  ;  —  but  she 
was  lovely,  she  was  lovable  ;  she  was  all  grace,  all 
fascination!  There  was  a  hazy,  dreamy  tenderness 
about  her  blue  eyes  that  entwined  itself  voluptuously 
about  the  heart,  and 

"  took  the  reason  prisoner." 


86  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

When  she  spoke, 

"  It  was  an  alarum  to  love  !  " 

She  did  not  sing  with  great  art  or  finish  ;  yet  it  was  a 
delight  to  hear  her.  Who  that  ever  heard,  can  forget 
her  Cuckoo-song  in  Kosalind  !  Her  limbs  were  dainty 
as  a  fawn's,  and  her  motion — by-the-bye,  it  was  of 
her  that  this  description  was  written  : 

With  what  a  waving  grace  she  goes 
Along  the  corridor.     How  like  a  fawn, 
Yet  statelier. — Hark !  no  sound,  however  soft, 
(Nor  gentlest  echo,)  telleth  where  she  treads ; 
But  every  motion  of  her  shape  doth  seem 
Hallowed  by  silence.     Thus  did  Hebe  grow 
Amidst  the  gods  a  paragon  ! 

And  this,  in  the  mouth  of  a  Monk, — 

"  When  joy  is  in  her  eye,  'tis  like  the  light 
Of  Heaven  ;  blue,  deep,  ethereal  blue  ; 
And,  were  she  but  a  saint,  I'd  worship  her !  " 

And  this, — 

"  Her  face  as  fair 

As  tho'  she  had  look'd  on  Paradise,  and  caught 
Its  early  beauty :  then  her  smile  was  soft 
As  Innocence  before  it  learned  to  love !  " 

Unfortunately,  she  learned  to  love  early ;  and  loved 
"not  wisely,  but  too  well."' 

COLONEL  BERKLEY,  eldest  son — but  by  some  flaw  in 
the  marriage-ceremony,  not  the  heir — of  his  father, 
Earl  Berkley,  was  one  of  the  most  magnificent  and 
fashionable  men  of  his  time :  his  was  indeed  the  perfec- 


COLONEL    BERKLEY.  87 

tion  of  manly  beauty.  I  saw  him  in  his  old  age,  when 
lie  had  been  ennobled  by  two  several  titles,  bestowed 
on  him  by  royal  favor ;  first,  Baron  Lord  Segrave ; 
second,  Earl  Fitzharding.  I  saw  him  when  he 
had  reached,  if  not  passed  his  eightieth  year;  and 
a  finer  specimen  of  octogenarian  bloom  I  never  set 
my  eyes  on, — considerably  over  six  feet  high,  straight, 
broad-chested,  and  fresh-complexioned.  No  wonder 
that,  in  the  bloom  of  manhood,  assisted  by  those  who 
should  have  guarded  her  innocence,  he  triumphed  over 
a  simple  girl,  dazzled  by  his  personal  accomplishments 
and  superior  rank.  Thus,  the  gentle  Maria  gave 
her  heart  to  one  who  did  not  reward  it  with  his  hand  ; 
and,  yielding  to  the  truthful  tenderness  of  her  nature, 
withheld  no  boon  that  love  could  ask,  or  confiding 
affection  could  bestow.  There  were  family  reasons 
why  Col.  Berkley  should  not  marry ;  and  Miss  Foote 
had  to  bear  the  burthen  of  maternity,  without  the  hon 
ors  of  a  wife.  Col.  Berkley  always  treated  her  with 
great  regard  and  respect,  and  her  offspring  with  pa 
ternal  care  and  affection ;  but  she  felt  her  position 
keenly  :  the  consciousness  of  it  tinged  her  life  with  a 
melancholy  that  lent  an  additional  charm  to  her  soft 
and  delicate  beauty. 

Of  course  there  were  not  wanting  men,  rich  and  un 
scrupulous,  to  offer  her  consolation,  in  a  new  attach 
ment,  to  be  cast  off  when  it  became  irksome  or  incon 
venient,  after  the  example  of  her  first  lover.  But  her 
heart  was  not  depraved,  and  she  shrank  from  liaisons 
that  would  dishonor  her  in  her  own  eyes.  At  length 
came  one  who  made  honorable  proposals  to  her ;  a 
gentleman  of  fortune,  a  Mr.  Ilayne,  commonly  called 


88  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Pea-green  Hayne,  from  the  rather  remarkable  color  of  a 
frock-coat  he  wore.  But  those  were  the  days  of  loud 
colors  in  dress :  black  did  not,  then,  overspread  all  backs 
as  with  a  pall.  So,  Pea-green  llayne  proposed  ;  and, 
after  some  hesitation,  was  accepted.  But  it  appears 
he  hardly  knew  his  own  mind,  or  like  some  other 
braggarts,  his  courage  failed  him  when  he  should 
have  taken  the  field.  He  backed  out,  and  repudiated 
his  matrimonial  liability.  A  jury,  however,  took  a 
different  view  of  the  case,  and  awarded  to  the  insulted 
Maria  £7,000,  by  way  of  damages  for  the  Pea-Greenes 
breach  of  promise. 

It  was  fortunate  she  escaped  from  this  matrimonial 
cage,  (though  she  carried  some  of  the  gold  bars  away,) 
for  a  brighter  destiny  was  in  store  for  her,  which  was 
wrought  out  curiously  enough. 

Madame  YESTRIS  loved  her,  as  rival  actresses  and 
rival  beauties  usually  love  each  other — (the  odium 
tlieatricum  is  not  so  virulent,  but  quite  as  active  as 
the  odium  theologium  /)  In  spite  of  this  fond  affec 
tion — resembling  that  which  a  certain  cloven-footed 
personage  is  proverbially  said  to  entertain  for  holy 
water — Madame  engaged  her  for  the  little  Olympic 
Theatre,  at  a  large  salary  ;  and  it  was  to  Madame  that 
she  owed — most  unintentionally  on  Yestris's  part,  you 
may  rely  on  it — her  accession  to  the  rank  and  title  of 
the  Countess  of  Harrington.  Green-Boom  gossip 
thus  tells  the  story  : 

The  EARL  OF  HARRINGTON,  who,  as  Lord  Peter 
sham,  had  been  what  we  should  call  now  the  greatest 
swell  of  his  day — a  fast  man,  the  fastest, — a  leader  of 
fashion  in  dress,  carriages,  snuff,  and  roue-ism — (there 


NOBLESSE    DE    THEATRE.  89 

was  the  Petersham  coat,  the  Petersham  hat,  the  Pe 
tersham  mixture,  &c.,  &c.,) — had  succeeded,  in  late 
years,  to  his  father's  title  and  fortune  :  he  was  proba 
bly  ten  or  fifteen  years  younger  than  Col.  Berkley ; 
and  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak  (1836),  might  be 
about  fifty- five  years  of  age :  Miss  Foote  was  about 
thirty -five.  The  Earl  was  still  a  gay  old  boy,  who,  I 
fear,  did  not  come  under  Dr.  Johnson's  category  of 
those  "  whose  follies  have  ceased  with  their  youth  ;"  he 
still  retained  his  hankering  after  the  dames  des  coulisses 
and  the  piquant  delights  of  SL  petit  souper.  Having  a 
mind  to  pass  an  evening  agreeably,  he  invited  his  old 
acquaintance,  Madame  Vestris  (this  was  before  her 
union  with  Mathews),  to  sup  with  him  at  his  princely 
mansion,  and  requested  her  to  bring  an  agreeable  and 
lively  companion  with  her.  Vestris  invited  a  young 
lady  of  the  theatre,  whose  name  I  will  not  mention, 
to  accompany  her.  She,  having  a  due  regard  for  a 
reputation  as  yet  untarnished,  declined  the  equivocal 
honor.  I  don't  know  what  suggested  Miss  Foote's 
name  to  "Vestris's  mind,  as  a  substitute ;  but  Foote 
was  invited,  and  went.  A  fortnight  after  that  supper, 
she  was  Countess  of  Harrington,  as  the  law  directs  ! 

I  believe  Vestris  had  a  severe  fit  of  illness,  in  con 
sequence — an  attack  of  spleen. 

The  Earl  died  :  his  brother  succeeded  to  the  earl 
dom  ;  and  Miss  Foote,  that  was,  became  Dowager 
Countess.  I  believe  she  still  lives. 


Perhaps  it  may  gratify  the  curiosity  of  some  read 
ers  to  peruse  the  following  list  of  actresses  who  be 
came,  by  marriage,  allied  to  the  nobility  of  England : 


90  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ANASTASIA  ROBINSON,  Countess  of  Peterborough. 

Miss  MELLON — married  the  Banker  Coutts;  and  after  his  death 
hecame  hy  marriage— J9w  A  o*s  of  St.  Allans. 

(Miss  Burdett  Coutts,  daughter  of  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  inher 
ited  her  vast  wealth.) 

Miss     FEXTON,    (the    original     n    -,         »  r>  7. 
Polly,  in  the  Beggars'  Opera,)    I)uc7iess  °f  Bolton' 

Miss    FARREN,  Countess  of  Derby. 

Miss  BRUNTON,  Countess  of  Craven. 

Miss   O'NEILL,    by    marriage 

with  Mr.  (after    Sir  Wm.)    Lady  Beecher. 
Beecher, 

Miss  STEPHENS,  Countess  of  Essex. 

Miss  FOOTE,  Countess  of  Harrington. 

Miss  PATON,  by  marriage  with ' 
a  son  of  the  Duke  of  Rich 
mond,  from  whom  she  was 
divorced,  at  her  own  suit, 


and    became    the    wife    of 


Lady  W.  Lenox. 


"Wood  the  singer,  by  whose 
name  she  is  so  well  known 
in  this  country, 
Mrs.  NISBETT,  Lady  Boothby. 


MR.  HAELEY  (J.  P.), 

was  another  of  the  old  school  of  comedians,  since  passed 
away,  belonging  to  our  company,  who  had  been  an  as 
sociate  and  friend  of  Jack  Bannister,  Joe  Munden,  and 
the  other  actors  of  the  preceding  generation,  and  now 
preserved  the  traditions  of  the  stage  in  old  comedies, 
llarley  was  immensely  funny,  sometimes  by  the  mere 
force  of  grotesqueness  of  manner.  In  such  parts  as  Bob 
Acres,  Mark  Meddle,  Nick  Bottom,  there  was  a  serio 
comic  earnestness  about  him,  that  was  highly  humor 
ous  ;  he  had  a  glibness  of  speech,  too — I  mean,  in  his 
best  days — which  served  him  well  in  Touchstone, 
Autolycus,  Trinculo,  and  other  Shaksperean  clowns, 
in  which  he  had  the  great  merit  of  a  scrupulous  ad 
herence  to  the  text,  and  said  no  more,  nor  no  less, 


MR.   HARLEY.  91 

than  was  set  down  for  him ;  his  singing  of  a  comic 
song,  too,  was  irresistibly  ludicrous,  and  never  failed 
to  set  the  house  in  a  roar.  He  had  a  habit  of  fixing 
his  eye,  in  his  song,  on  some  person  in  the  pit,  just 
behind  the  orchestra,  and  singing  at  him  ;  bobbing 
his  head  at  him,  and  treating  the  butt  to  all  sorts  of 
mugs,  hammering  the  jokes  of  the  song  into  him,  by 
iteration,  till  the  individual  attacked,  began  first  to 
titter,  then,  as  Harley's  grimaces  proceeded,  to  laugh 
out,  and  lastly,  overcome  by  the  battery  of  nods, 
bobs,  and  queer  faces  that  the  actor  let  fly  at  him, 
was  fairly  convulsed  with  laughter  ;  which,  of  course, 
spread  to  his  neighbors,  so  through  the  pit,  and  thus 
through  the  whole  house :  or,  perhaps,  the  lutt  was 
annoyed  and  embarrassed,  by  being  thus  singled  out, 
as  a  point  cPappui,  to  have  fun  poked  at  him ;  his 
irritation,  or  confusion,  amused  his  neighbors,  and 
they  laughed  at  his  annoyance;  Harley  continued 
his  fire,  the  man's  vexation  increased,  those  in  the 
vicinity  grew  louder  in  their  enjoyment  of  it,  and  the 
rest  of  the  house  joined  in,  ignorant  of  the  real  cause, 
but  believing  they  were  carried  away  by  Harley's 
drolleries.  The  trick  never  failed,  one  way  or  the  other. 

"  That,  George,"  said  Harley  to  me,  "  I  learnt 
from  old  Joey,  (Munden.)  <  Alwa}rs  fix  your  eye,' 
said  Joey,  '  on  some  one  man  in  the  pit,  sing  at  him, 
till  he  laughs,  and  then  you  have  'em — the  rest  are 
sure  to  follow.' " 

Harley  was  a  most  valuable  member  of  a  com 
pany';  highly  popular  with  the  public  ;  always  ready 
to  serve  the  interests  of  the  theatre ;  pleasant  and 
obliging  to  his  brother  actors ;  never  known  to  say 


92  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

a  harsh  word  to,  or  express  a  harsh  opinion  of,  any 
one ;  he  had  every  one's  good  will ;  was  always  en 
gaged  at  a  leading  theatre,  on  a  good  salary,  and 
continued  to  perform  at  the  Princess's  np  to  a  very 
short  time  before  his  death.  In  private  life,  he  was 
very  much  respected  ;  and,  from  his  economical 
habits,  was  thought  to  have  accumulated  a  large  for 
tune  ;  but  it  was,  I  believe,  found,  that  over-confidence 
in  the  opinions  and  resources  of  friends,  had  led  him 
into  money  engagements  which  had  considerably 
diminished  his  means. 

He  died  in  an  advanced  age — upwards  of  seventy — 
at  his  house  in  Harley  street,  where  he  had  lived,  with 
his  sisters,  a  bachelor's  life,  for  many  years.  His  great 
delight  was  the  theatre — whether  acting  or  not ;  he  was 
hardly  easy  out  of  it,  even  if  he  did  not  play.  He 
never  missed  being  present  at  the  first  night  of  a  new 
play,  or  a  new  performer ;  and  his  criticisms  were 
always  of  the  most  encouraging  kind.  It  must  have 
been  something  hopelessly  bad,  indeed,  of  which 
Harley  could  have  uttered  a  decided  condemnation. 
His  time  was  divided  between  the  Theatre  and  the 
Garrick  Club,  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  oldest  mem 
bers.  He  was  my  sponsor  on  my  admission  to  it. 

He  has  had  many  imitators,  in  a  more  or  less 
degree,  who  have  become  favorites  of  the  public. 
Buckstone,  "Wright,  Compton,  and  Widdicombe,  are 
all  of  his  school — they  may  be  called  the  Harleian 
Miscellany. 

The  only  sarcastic  thing  I  ever  heard  him  say,  was 
in  reference  to  this  very  point.  It  was  about  five 
years  ago,  at  the  Garrick  Club  ;  he  felt  that  he  was 


THE   COLUMBINE.  93 

gradually  nearing  his  turn,  and  he  saw  his  crack 
parts  falling  into  other  hands,  and  other  favorites 
taking  his  place  with  the  public. 

"It  is  rather  hard,  George,"  said  he,  "  to  have 
people  pick  your  brains,  and  take  the  bread  out  of 
your  mouth,  too." 

He  died  very  tranquilly  ;  and  his  last  words  were 
a  quotation  from  one  of  his  favorite  parts — Bottom, 
in  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  He  had  been 
ailing  and  failing  some  weeks  ;  and  was  seated,  ap 
parently  more  comfortable  than  usual,  in  his  large 
easy  chair,  when,  after  a  silence,  he  said,  suddenly, 
(in  Bottom's  words,) 

"  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep," 

turned  his  head  aside,  closed  his  eyes,  and  never 
re-opened  them. 

"Alas!  poorYorick!" 

THE  COLUMBINE. 

Attached  to  the  Covent  Garden  Company  of 
that  day,  was  a  fair  lady,  who  figured  annually 
in  the  Christmas  Pantomimes  as  Columbine,  Miss 

F ,  much  admired  for  the  classic  contour  of 

her  face,  and  the  elegance  of  her  form.  She  has, 
for  some  years,  been  withdrawn  from  the  stage,  and 
lives  under  the  protection  of  his  Royal  Highness 

the  Duke  of .     She  has,  by  her  royal  lover, 

several  children,  remarkable  for  their  beauty — worthy 
of  the  beautiful  race  from  which  they  spring.  The 
lady's  position  is  peculiar.  A  Royal  Duke  is  under 
very  binding  restrictions  as  to  marriage,  and  is  ex- 


94  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

pected  to  receive  his  wife  at  the  State's  hands ;  but 
the  (quasi)  Duchess  is  treated  with  every  considera 
tion  and  respect ;  has  a  handsome  house,  and  elegant 
villa,  carriages,  retinue,  and  attendants.  So  that 
Miss  F —  —  is  probably  as  happy  as  ever  she 
dreamed  of  being,  as  Columbine,  in  the  impossible 
bliss  of  the  last  scene  of  a  Christmas  Pantomime, 
where  the  good  fairy  unites  the  faithful  lovers,  amidst 
a  profusion  of  garlands  and  a  general  illumination. 


NEW   STUDIES.  95 


VI. 


PBOVTNCIAL  ENGAGEMENTS,  1840 — Starring  It  in  England — Incidents — A  one-armed 
Tragedian — New  Readings — Hamlet — Senna  versus  Seneca — A  grave-scene — 
Yorick's  Skull  ? — Tableau  extraordinary — A  queer  Visitor — A  queer  Manager 
—A  strolling  Company— Scaffolders— A  succinct  settlement— A  fortnight  at 
Liverpool— Mr.  ELTON. 

IN  addition  to  the  characters  of  Leon,  Love  well, 
and  Mercutio,  which  I  have  mentioned,  the  other 
parts  I  played  during  my  first  season  at  Co  vent  Gar 
den,  were  Modus  (Hunchback),  Ctesiphon  (Ion), 
Colonna  (in  Leigh  Hunt's  new  play,  the  Legend  of 
Florence,  which  ran  fourteen  nights),  Careless  (in  the 
Double  Gallant,  a  revival  of  an  old  comedy  of  Gibber's), 
Laertes  (Hamlet),  Claudio,  to  Mr.  Charles  Kemble's 
Benedick,  before  the  Queen,  on  his  brief  return  to 
the  stage,  by  Her  Majesty's  command  ;  and  Marc 
Antony  at  the  Victoria  Theatre,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
dramatic  fund. 

During  the  season,  I  had  diligently  studied  and 
rehearsed  at  home,  Hamlet,  Othello,  Rolla,  Claude 
Melnotte,  Virginius,  Benedick ;  for  these,  with  Leon, 
Julian  St.  Pierre,  Duke  Aranza,  and  Faulconbridge, 
I  had  procured,  at  considerable  expense,  an  appro- 


96  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

priate  wardrobe ;  and  these  formed  my  present  re 
pertoire,  with  which,  on  the  close  of  the  Co  vent  Garden 
season,  I  started  on  a  provincial  tour. 

Except  the  five  nights  I  played  at  Liverpool, 
Preston,  a  manufacturing  town  in  Lancashire,  gave 
me  my  first  starring  engagement,  and  the  opportunity 
of  testing  my  powers  before  an  audience,  in  Hamlet, 
Othello,  and  other  parts  which  I  had  never  yet  played. 
During  my  week  in  Preston  I  tried  my  wing  in  them, 
before  venturing  on  a  larger  field,  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  win  both  applause  and  money  ;  of  the  first, 
abundance  ;  of  the  second,  much  more  than  I  expect 
ed  from  so  small  a  town.  I  played  six  nights,  and  re 
ceived  for  my  share  £50  (about  $250),  not  bad  for  a 
novice  in  a  little  country  theatre. 

I  began  to  think  myself  on  the  high  road  to  fame 
and  fortune  !  This  was  in  June,  1840.  My  next  en 
gagement  was  for  a  fortnight,  at  the  Theatre  Royal, 
Liverpool ;  where  I  opened  in  July,  to  a  fine  house,  in 
Hamlet ;  was  greatly  received  in  it,  and  highly  compli- 
mentedp— much  more  highly  than  I  deserved,  I  am 
sure — both  by  press  and  public. 

Mr.  J.  R.  ANDERSON  was,  after  the  first  night,  as 
sociated  with  me  in  this  engagement,  and  we  played 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Othello  (alternating  parts),  Julius 
Caesar,  and  other  plays  in  which  we  could  appear  to 
gether.  For  my  benefit  I  relied  on  my  own  attraction 
alone,  and  played  Claude  Melnotte,  with  Harriet 
Fauci t  as  the  Pauline.  I  had  a  very  good  house,  and 
did  well  by  my  ten  nights. 

On  Saturday,  1st  August,  I  played  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Manchester,  for  the  first  time ;  Mercutio  (Ro- 


A    ONE-ARMED    ACTOR.  97 

meo,  Anderson),  and  Petruchio  in  the  after-piece ; 
receiving  £10  ($50)  for  my  night's  work. 

I  had  now  not  been  quite  ten  months  on  the  stage, 
and  had  the  gratification  to  find  myself  received  in  the 
largest  provincial  theatres  as  an  acknowledged  star 
in  the  leading  characters  of  the  drama.  I  therefore 
diligently  pursued  the  study  of  my  profession,  adding 
new  parts  by  degrees  to  my  list,  and  playing,  during 
the  next  twelve  months,  in  several  provincial  towns, 
besides  second  and  third  engagements  at  Liverpool 
and  Manchester,  increasing  my  experience  of  the 
stage,  attaining  ease  in  my  new  parts,  and  establish 
ing  a  reputation  in  the  country.  During  this  year,  I 
first  played  Macbeth,  Charles  Surface,  Marcus  Bru 
tus,  Octavian,  Master  Walter,  and  Richard  III. 

As  I  returned  to  Covent  Garden  Theatre  the  season 
after,  this  is  all  I  need  say  of  this  part  of  my  dra 
matic  career,  except  to  record  a  few  incidents  that 
occurred  to  me,  and  which  may  be  perhaps  amusing. 

A  ONE-AHMED  ACTOR. — Can  any  one  imagine  an 
actor  playing  Icilius,  lago,  Pizarro,  Banquo,  with 
only  one  arm?  Such  a  mutilated  hero  did  I  encounter 
at  Leicester,  near  where  the  battle  of  Bosworth  field 
was  fought.  He  had  lost  his  arm, — not  in  that  bloody 
fight ;  but  it  had  been  accidentally  shot  off.  In  Icilius, 
the  deficit  was  concealed  by  his  toga,  in  Pizarro  b}>- 
his  mantle,  in  Banquo  by  his  plaid  ;  and  thus  I  had 
really  not  noticed  the  poor  fellow's  mutilation,  though  I 
had  observed  that  he  seemed  rather  one-sided  in  his 
action,  till  I  played  Othello ;  and  then,  what  was  my  hor 
ror,  on  seizing  him,  in  the  third  act,  to  find  that  I  had 


98  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

got  hold  of  an  armless  sleeve,  stuffed  out  in  mockery 
of  flesh, — for  he  did  not  wear  a  cork  arm  !  I  was  al 
most  struck  dumb  ;  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort 
that.  I  recovered  myself  sufficiently  to  go  on  with  the 
text.  Poor  fellow!  he  was  a  remarkably  sensible 
actor  and  good  reader  ;  but,  of  course,  he  could  never 
rise  in  his  profession  with  only  one  arm  ! 

"  Misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bedfellows," 
says  Trinculo ;  and  country  theatres  acquaint  one 
with  strange  readings,  I  say.  I  have  met  with  many 
strange  perversions  of  text  and  meaning  ;  but  nothing, 
perhaps,  so  outrageously  wide  of  the  mark,  and  so 
ingeniously  absurd,  as  one  that  a  Polonius  gave  me, 
at  a  small  theatre  in  Lancashire.  He  came  in,  at  re 
hearsal,  in  the  second  act,  to  tell  me  that  the  actors 
were  arrived ;  and  proceeded  to  describe  them,  in  this 
manner : 

"  The  best  actors  in  the  world,  my  lord  ;  for  tragedy,  comedy, 
history,  pastoral,  pastorical  comical,  historical  pastoral,  scene 
individable,  or  poem  unlimited.  Plautus  is  too  heavy,  and  Senna 
is  too  light!" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  not  wishing  to  wound 
his  vanity,  "  but  are  you  quite  right  in  the  text,  there  ? " 

"  Right  in  the  text !  "  said  he,  rather  indignantly ; 
"  I  should  think  I  am.  I  ought  to  be  :  I've  played 
Polonius  twenty-odd  years  ;  I  played  Polonius  before 
you  were  born,  sir  !  " 

"  Very  possibly,"  I  replied,  "  and  yet  you  may 
not  be  right,  after  all.  Oblige  me  by  looking  at  the 
book,  for  certainty."  (The  prompter  was,  as  usual, 
making  out  a  cast,  or  a  list  of  properties,  or  doing 
any  thing  rather  than  attend  to  the  prompt-book.) 


A   PRACTICAL   JOKER.  99 

"  Look  at  the  book  !  "  said  he,  "  I  shall  do  no  such 
thing.  What  for,  I  should  like  to  know?  I've  played 
Polonius  with  your  father,  sir,  and  it's  strange  if  I 
don't  know  the  text." 

"  It  is  strange,"  I  replied  ;  "  and  yet  I  think  you 
will  find  that  you  are  at  fault  in  this  passage.  I  have 
always  read,  and  heard  it  given — 

'  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light,1 

Seneca  being  a  tragedian,  and  Plautus  a — " 

"  O  fudge  !  "  said  he,  "  I  know  what  Senna  is,  as 
well  as  you  ;  as  for  Plautus,  I  don't  know  what  that 
is,  nor  I  don't  care ;  but  I've  spoke  it  so  for  twenty- 
five  years,  and  I  aint  agoing  to  change  it  now  !  " 

"  O,  very  well,"  I  said,  "  if  you're  resolved  to  talk 
nonsense,  do  so." 

Accordingly,  at  night,  when  he  came  to  the  pas 
sage,  he  walked  deliberately  up  to  me,  looked  me 
full  in  the  face,  and  in  a  very  emphatic  tone,  said, 

"  Plautus  is  too  heavy,  and  Senna  is  too  light !  " 

I  could  only  wish  him  a  good  dose  of  it,  by  way  of 
clearing  his  thick  head ;  but  it  passed  with  the 
audience ;  apparently  no  one  noticed.  Perhaps  he 
had  read  it  so  to  them  for  twenty-odd  years,  and  they 
were  used  to  it ;  who  knows  ? 


A  PRACTICAL  JOKER. — There  was  a  low-comedian, 
familiarly  called  Dick  Hoskins,  whom  I  occasionally 
encountered  at  several  of  the  small  country  theatres 
in  the  North  of  England,  and  who  was  an  in- 


100  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

veterate  and  practical  joker  on  the  stage.  He 
was  always  very  well  behaved  with  me  ;  but  when 
he  came  in  contact  with  a  tragedian  for  whose 
talents  he  entertained  a  contempt,  or  whose  per 
son  or  manners  displeased  him,  woe  to  the  un 
happy  subject  of  his  fun !  All  his  tragedy  was 
turned  into  farce,  when  Dick  was  in  the  humorous 
vein.  Thus,  he  played  the  Grave-digger,  one  night, 
at,  I  think,  the  Rochdale  Theatre,  in  Lancashire,  to 
the  Hamlet  of  a  Mr.  C  —  — ,  a  most  solemn  and 
mysterious  tragedian,  of  the  cloak-and-dagger  school. 
This  gentleman's  tragedy  was  in  Dick's  eyes  much 
more  intensely  comic  than  his  own  broadest  strokes 
of  farce:  accordingly,  Dick  held  no  terms  with  it, 
and  showed  the  unfortunate  object  of  his  merriment 
no  quarter  on  the  stage.  "When,  therefore,  Hamlet 
approached  the  grave  to  hold  his  dialogue  with  Dick 
in  it,  the  latter  began  his  antics,  and  extemporized 
all  sorts  of  absurd  interpolations  in  the  text — which 
he  spoke  in  his  own  broad  Lancashire  dialect.  There 
was  not  a  great  house,  and  Dick  allowed  himself  full 

license.     Mr.   C scowled   fearfully;  but  Dick 

was  unabashed.  At  length,  he  put  a  climax  on  his 
audacity,  that  "  topp'd  the  iniinite  of  insult." 

The  theatre  was  built  on  the  site  of  an  old  dis 
senting  chapel,  which  had  formerly  stood  there,  in 
which  a  preacher  named  Banks  had  held  forth,  and 
in  the  small  grave-yard  attached  to  which,  the  Doc 
tor — for  he  was  popularly  dubbed  Doctor  Banks — had 
been  buried  some  twenty  years  ago ;  and  his  name 
was  familiar  yet.  So,  after  answering  Hamlet's 
question — 


NOVEL    TABLEAU.   .\  10-1 : 

"  How  long  will  a  man  lie  in  the  earth  ere  he  rot  ?  " 

Dick  proceeded  in  due  course  to  illustrate  his  an 
swer  by  Yorick's  skull ;  and  taking  it  up,  he  said,  in 
the  words  of  the  text — 

"  Now  here's  a  skull  that  hath  lain  you  in  the 
earth  three-and-twenty  years.  "Whose  do  you  think  it 
was  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,"  replied  Hamlet,  in  his  sepul 
chral,  tragedy-tone. 

"This  skull,  sir,"  said  Dick — pursuing  the  text 
thus  far,  and  then  making  a  sudden  and  most  un 
looked-for  alteration — 

"This  was  DOCTOR  BANKS'S  skull!  " 

And  the  word  skull  he  pronounced  like  bull. 

Of  course  the  house  was  in  an  uproar  of  laughter 
and  confusion.  The  victimized  tragedian  stamped  and 
fumed  about  the  stage,  as  well  he  might,  exclaiming, 
"Yorick's,  sir,  Yorick's!" 

"No,"  said  Dick,  coolly,  when  the  tumult  had 
subsided,  taking  up  another  skull,  and  resuming  the 
text— 

"  This  is  Yorick's  skull,  the  king's  jester ;  but" 
(going  off  again)  "  t'other  's  Doctor  Banks's,  as  I  told 
you." 

This  was  too  much ;  this  was  the  last  straw  on 
the  tragedian's  back !  He  jumped  into  the  grave, 
seized  the  (very)  low-comedian  by  the  throat,  and 
a  most  fearful  contest,  never  before — or  since,  I  hope, 
—introduced  into  the  play,  ensued,  in  which  Dick 
held  his  own  bravely,  and  succeeded  at  length  in  over 
powering,  in  a  double  sense,  the  worsted  tragedian, 
whom  he  held  down  in  the  grave  with  one  hand, 


lp,3  ;  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

while  he  flourished  "  DOCTOR  BANKS'S  skull "  in  tri 
umph  above  his  head ! 

The  curtain  was  dropped,  amidst  roars  and  shrieks 
of  laughter;  in  which  king,  queen,  monk  and  cour 
tiers — who,  in  the  vain  hope  of  arresting  the  row,  had 
been  sent  on  with  Ophelia's  empty  coffin — were  com 
pelled  to  join,  forming  a  tableau,  which  finished  the 
play  for  that  night. 

A  QUEER  VISITOR. — I  had  just  finished  breakfast  at 
the  hotel  at  Bolton,  a  small  town  in  Lancashire,  where 
I  was  playing  a  short  engagement,  when  the  waiter  told 
me  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  speak  with  me. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  waiter ;  "he's  rather  a 
strange-looking  gentleman,  sir." 

"  How,  strange  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  can't  exactly  say ;  he  looks  queer, 
somehow  :  I  think,  sir,  he  must  be  one  of  the  actor- 
chaps, — or  else  a  gipsy." 

"  Oh,"  said  I — a  highly-complimentary  alterna 
tive,  I  thought  to  myself  ! 

"  Well,"  I  added,  "  let  me  see  this  strange  gentle 
man." 

"  Yes,  sir ; "  and  the  queer-looking  chap  was 
brought  into  my  room. 

A  queer-looking  chap  he  was  indeed !  A  tall,  gaunt, 
high-shouldered,  ra'w-boned,  bossy-faced,  hook-nosed, 
sun-burnt,  and  hollow-cheeked  individual,  with  a  pair 
of  keen,  restless,  black  eyes,  deep  set,  under  shaggy 
overhanging  eye-brows ;  dressed  in  a  faded  frock-coat 
which  had  once  been  brown,  but  was  now  of  no  posi- 


A    QUEER   VISITOR.  103 

tive  color,  and  which — having  formed  part  of  the 
wardrobe  of  a  smaller  man  than  its  present  wearer,  to 
whom  by  some  freak  of  fortune  it  had  lapsed — being 
too  short  for  him  in  every  way,  showed  his  bare,  bony 
wrists,  innocent  of  wristbands;  a  dark  double-breasted 
waistcoat,  buttoned  close  across  his  chest,  to  concealj 
perhaps,  his  bosom's  secret — (a  scarcity  of  linen) — a 
pair  of  trowsers  that,  having  probably  been  derived 
from  the  same  source  as  the  coat,  presented  the  same 
exigtiousness  of  length,  and  displayed  the  tops  of  a 
pair  of  very  seedy  and  travel-worn  high-lows, — a  fuzzy 
head  of  hair,  so  promiscuous  and  so  indistinct  of  tint, 
from  dryness,  age,  and  the  dust  of  the  roads,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  guess  at  its  original  shade, — such 
were  the  principal  features  of  the  strange-looking  gen 
tleman,  who  now,  with  a  rusty,  battered  hat  in  his 
large,  muscular  hands,  presented  himself,  bowing,  to 
my  notice. 

His  name  was  Hall,  or  Hill,  (I  forget  which,)  he 
said,  in  a  husky,  hoarse,  foggy  voice  ;  such  as  one 
hears  so  often  on  a  London  cab-stand,  indicative  of 
Old-Tom  propensities,  or  a  weakness  for  Geneva — 
perhaps  in  this  case,  poor  fellow,  of  a  consumption. 
"  You  seem  tired,"  I  said  ;  "  pray  sit  down." 
He  did  so,  thanking  me  ;  and,  after  a  preliminary 
cough,  by  way  of  clearing  his  throat,  he  began,  in  a 
somewhat  less  thick  utterance — ard  in  a  style  semi- 
oratorical,  semi-theatrical :  the  style,  in  fact,  adopted 
usually  by  the  presenters  of  snuff-boxes,  pieces  of 
plate,  gold  watches,  and  testimonials  generally,  to  the 
happy  recipient  (to  use  the  set  phraseology)  who  has 


104  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

paid  the  day  before,  through  his  agent,  the  full  price 
of  the  article  to  be  presented  to  him — 

"  I  am  commissioned,  sir,"  he  said,  "  by  Mr. 
Parish,  the  manager  of  the  Blackburn  Theatre,  to  ask 
if  your  engagements  will  allow  you  to  give  us  the 
aid  of  your  splendid  talents  for  a  few,  say  three  or 
more,  nights ;  and  if  so,  on  what  terms,  you  would 
consent  to  visit  us." 

Now,  there  was  nothing  in  this  address  particu 
larly  outre  in  itself:  it  was  the  grandiloquent  ambas 
sadorial  style  of  the  man,  coupled  with  his  mean  and 
wild  appearance,  that  made  it  ludicrous.  He  had  all 
the  burlesque  dignity,  and  self-importance,  of  a  ragged 
plenipotentiary  from  Otaheite ! 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure,"  I  said,  "  Mr.  Hall,  of 
being  acquainted  with  Mr.  Parish." 

"A  highly  respectable  and  responsible  man,  I  as 
sure  you,  sir  :  the  soul  of  honor,  sir,"  quickly  replied 
the  ambassador,  laying  his  hand  on  his  breast. 

"  What  plays  are  your  company  capable  of  per 
forming,  Mr.  Hall  ?  "  * 

"  Any,  sir,  and  all,"  he  answered,  with  a  flourish : 
"  We  are  %ip  in  all  the  stock  tragedies,  and  have  an  ef 
ficient  company." 

"  A  good  leading  actress,  Mr.  Hall  ? " 
"  An  angel,  sir !  young,  perfect,  talented  and  amen 
able" — He  laid  particular  stress  on  the  last  epithet. 

"  A  rare  assemblage  of  qualities,"  I  said ;  "  but 
let  me  order  you  some  breakfast,  Mr.  Hall ;  you  seem 
fatigued.  How  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Walked,  sir !  "  " 

"  Walked  !  "  I  repeated ;  "  why  it's  twelve  miles." 


A    QUEER    VISITOR.  105 

"  I  know  it,  sir,"  he  replied ;  "  but  exercise  is  good 
for  me,  and  I  preferred  it  to  the  coach  :  it  will  do  me 
good/' 

A  good  breakfast,  thought  I,  would  do  you  more 
good  ;  and,  the  waiter  just  then  coming  into  the  room 
with  a  letter  for  me, 

"  Order  a  beefsteak  for  this  gentleman,"  I  said. 
"Tea  or  coffee,  Mr.  Hall?" 

"  Why,"  said  that  gentleman,  "  you're  very  good, 
sir ;  but  if  you'll  allow  me,  I'll  take  a  little  ale." 

"  Bring  some  ale,  waiter,"  I  said. 
u  Ale,  sir  ?  yes  sir ; "  and  with  a  look  of  ill-con 
cealed  wonder,  the  waiter  left  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door,  my  new  friend 
wished  to  resume  the  subject  of  his  mission ;  but  1 
stopped  him  by  saying, 

"  Wait  till  you've  had  something  to  eat,  Mr.  Hall, 
arid  then  we'll  attend  to  that  little  matter.  Mean 
while,"  I  said,  "  there's  the  Times  ;  excuse  my  read 
ing  and  answering  a  letter." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  steak  and  ale  were  brought 
in.  The  strange  gentleman  fell  to  without  ceremony, 
despatched  them  in  a  few  minutes  more,  and  gave  me 
notice,  as  I  continued  my  writing,  that  he  had  fin 
ished,  with  a  satisfied  explosion  of  breath,  something 
between  a  yawn,  and  a  "  paviour's  sigh." 

I  turned  towards  him,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  to 
gether,  in  token  of  the  refreshment  of  his  inner  man ; 
and  he  said,  in  a  theatrical  way,  quoting  from  the 
Merchant  of  Venice — 

"  Well,  sir,  shall  I  have  your  answer  ?  Will  you 
pleasure  us  ? " 

5* 


106  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hall,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  in  your  neigh 
borhood.  I  have  three  vacant  nights  next  week,  and 
I  will  come  to  you  Monday,  Wednesday,  and  Friday, 
for  a  clear  half  of  the  receipts,  each  night." 

"  Those  are  very  high  terms,  sir,"  he  replied,  rais 
ing  his  eyebrows  and  screwing  np  his  mouth.  "  I 
am  commissioned  to  offer  you  a  clear  third,  and  half  a 
benefit.  My  power  extends  no  further." 

"  The  value  of  a  thing,"  I  answered,  "  is  that  which 
it  will  bring,  you  know,  Mr.  Hall.  Allow  me  to  ask 
how  much  money  you  play  to  ordinarily.  What  were 
the  receipts  of  the  house  last  night,  for  example  ?  I 
trust  to  your  honor." 

"  Well,  sir,  last  night  was  a  bad  night.  We  had 
not  a  great  house  last  night." 

"Come,  now;  had  you  thirty  shillings?"  ($7 
about.) 

"  O  yes,  sir  ;  we  had  thirty  shillings." 

"  Not  much  more,  eh  ?  " 

"  ISTo,  not  much  more,"  said  he,  with  a  comic 
smile. 

"  Well,  suppose  I  play  to  an  average  of  twenty 
pounds  nightly,  and  you  pay  me  half  of  it,  if  your  or 
dinary  business  does  not  produce  more  than  two 
pounds,  you'll  be  a  considerable  gainer  by  the  trans 
action." 

"  Yes,"  said  he  ;  "  if  that  were  certain — " 

"  Nothing  is  certain,"  1  replied,  "  in  theatrical 
matters ;  but  I  have  every  right  to  expect  it ;  and  it 
is  only  on  the  terms  I  have  mentioned  that  I  can  con 
sent  to  visit  you." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  my  instructions  are  to  se- 


A    STROLLING   COMPANY.  107 

cure  your  services,  and  therefore  I  must  accept  your 
terms." 

A  scratch  of  a  pen  on  a  sheet  of  paper  settled  the 
agreement ;  and  Mr.  Hall,  with  a  profusion  of  bows  and 
thanks  for  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  my  "  hospita 
ble  treatment,"  took  up  his  hat  to  depart.  There  was 
a  farmer's  light  taxed-cart  at  the  door,  and  finding  its 
owner  was  going  as  far  as  Blackburn,  I  gave  him  half- 
a-crown  to  take  my  "  strange-looking  friend  "  to  his 
destination. 

The  next  week,  on  Monday,  I  reached  Blackburn 
early  in  the  morning,  and  about  half-past  ten  o'clock, 
my  strange  negotiator  was  ushered  into  my  room, 
accompanied  by  "  another  spirit"  almost  as  strange  as 
himself;  a  very  swarthy,  powerful  man,  considerably 
over  six  feet  high,  with  jet-black  glossy  hair,  that 
hung  on  the  sides  of  his  cheeks  in  short  ringlets.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  velveteen  suit,  and  had  altogether  a 
regular  gipsy  look  and  air.  (Par  nobile  fratrum  I 
thought  I.)  The  last  stranger  was  duly  presented  to 
me,  as  "  Mr.  Gould  ;  our  stage-manager,  sir !  " 

They  had  called  to  show  me  to  the  theatre  ;  and 
I  got  up  and  followed  them,  to  the  rather  dingy  back- 
street  in  which  it  was  situated.  The  company  was 
assembled,  and  we  commenced  the  rehearsal  of 
"  Othello."  The  tall  Gould  was  the  lago,  and  my 
Desdemona  was  the  "  angel "  aforesaid,  a  well-looking 
young  woman,  who,  without  seeming  particularly  to 
understand  them,  was  very  perfect  in  the  words  of 
the  text.  My  new  friend  the  stage-manager,  barring 
occasional  extraordinary,  and  hitherto  undreamt  of 
readings,  was  pretty  safe  ;  and  though  there  was  a 


108  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

general  air  of  seediness  about  the  corps  dramatique, 
they  were  all  evidently  desirous  of  doing  their  best, 
and  we  got  through  the  rehearsal  tolerably  satisfac 
torily.  The  Emilia,  it  is  true,  did  not  seem  to  have 
any  innate  reverence  for  Shakspere,  or  any  intimate 
acquaintance  with  her  share  of  the  dialogue,  or  her 
connection  with  the  plot ;  and  Roderigo,  a  very  melan 
choly-looking  youth,  with  a  very  tallowy  complexion, 
and  very  thin  legs,  and  a  squeaky  voice,  seemed  par 
ticularly  innocent  of  every  thing  connected  with  the 
play,  especially  as  to  who  he  was,  what  he  was,  and 
where  he  was,  and  why  he  was  what  he  was,  who  he 
was,  and  where  he  was.  However,  as  I  had  little  to 
do  with  these  individuals,  their  misfeasances  or  mal 
feasances,  did  not  much  trouble  me. 

In  the  evening,  I  went  rather  early  to  the  theatre, 
and  was  agreeably  surprised  by  finding  that  a  very 
good-sized  room  had  been  fitted  up  as  my  dress 
ing-room,  cleaned,  carpeted,  sofa'd,  well  lit,  with  extra 
lights,  and  in  every  way  made  snug.  This  attention 
to  my  private  comfort  gave  me  better  hopes  of  the 
appointments  for  the  stage,  about  which  I  confess  I 
had  my  doubts.  But,  when  we  came  to  the  Senate- 
scene,  I  was  pleased  to  find  a  respectable  array  of 
properties,  with  a  Duke,  who,  though  he  had  the 
snuffles  in  his  utterance,  was  well-dressed,  and  correct 
in  the  text.  Barring  a  few  little  contretemps,  which  did 
not  seem  to  atfect  the  enjoyment  of  the  audience,  if  they 
did  not  even  increase  it,  (certainly  they  gave  uproarious 
tokens  of  delight  at  the  burlesque  and  Bombastes- 
jFwmstf-death  of  Eoderigo,  who,  in  his  agony,  kept 
his  leg  quivering  and  shaking  in  the  air  as  if  he  were 


SUCCINCT    SETTLEMENT.  109 

galvanized, — while  lago  kept  sticking  his  sword  into 
him,  and  at  every  stick,  a  fresh  kick) — except  this, 
and  one  or  two  other  rather  striking  effects,  the  play 
went  off  with  immense  applause,  and  the  actors  were 
evidently  highly  satisfied  with  their  own  efforts  in 
the  Shaksperean  Drama. 

The  house,  as  I  had  prophesied,  was  well  filled  ; 
and  after  the  performance,  I  had  my  first  interview 
and  settlement  with  the  Manager  :  and  a  strange  set 
tlement  it  was.  ' 

He  walked  into  my  room,  as  I  had  jnst  finished 
my  change  of  dress,  and  washed  off  the  last  tint  of 
Othello's  swarthy  hue ;  and  said,  with  a  strong  Lan 
cashire  accent — 

"  Moy  name's  Parish,  sir ;  A  'm  th'  manager  o'  this 
cuncearn,  and  aw've  coomb  to  settle." 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Parish ;  I  hope  you're  pleased 
with  the  house  to-night." 

''It's  a  foine  (fine)  house,  sir  ;  yaw've  doon  well : 
and  every  neet  (night)  I  expect  yaw'll  do  better. 
Yaw've  got  th'  stoof  in  yaw,  and  th'  chaps  loike  you." 

I  bowed — he  went  on. 

"  A  don't  know  haw  much  is  in  th'  ouse ; 
A  haven't  counted  th'  brass  (money)  ;  but  I  took  it 
all  mysen',  and  so  there's  no  cheating  here." 

With  that,  he  turned  his  back  to  my  dreseing-table, 
and  emptied  out  of  his  coat-pockets  as  I  looked  on  with 
wonder,  a  large  quantity  of  silver  and  copper.  Hav 
ing  turned  his  coat-pockets  thoroughly  out,  he  next 
put  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  fished  out 
a  £5  note,  which  he  laid  down  on  the  table ;  and 
lastly,  he  pulled  from  the  pockets  of  his  pants  a  couple 


110  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

of  sovereigns ;  those  also  he  deposited  with  the  rest 
of  the  current  coin  of  the  realm,  saying — 

"Theere  !  theere  it  aw  is,  just  as  A  tuk  it.  Now  th' 
bargain  is  auf  and  afe  (half  and  half) ;  pretty  stiff 
terms,  maister,  but  yaw've  airnt  it  (earned  it) ;  so 
count  away  ;  and  yaw  tak  afe  and  A  '11  tak  afe  ;  and 
then  all  '11  be  straight  'twixt  you  and  me." 

So  down  we  sat  "  to  count  the  brass ;  "  the  £5 
note,  with  the  two  sovereigns  upon  it,  were  placed  in 
isolated  dignity,  as  became  their  aristocratic  denom 
ination  and  value,  at  one  side  ;  the  copper  we  piled 
into  shilling-heaps  of  twelve  pennies,  and  the  silver 
into  heaps  of  twenty  shillings,  or  more  frequently 
of  forty  sixpences  (the  price  of  the  gallery  being  six 
pence),  representing  the  £1  sterling. 

During  this  interesting  "  financial  operation,"  not 
a  word  was  spoken  on  either  side ;  the  piles  being 
duly  made  up,  it  appeared  on  counting  them,  that 
there  were  twenty  pounds  ten  shillings  in  silver,  and 
two  pounds  and  sixpence  in  copper ;  which,  with  the 
£5  note  and  the  £2  in  gold,  amounted  to  twenty-nine 
pounds,  ten  shillings  and  sixpence  (about  $150) ; 
large  receipts  for  a  small  country  theatre,  I  can  tell 
you  ! — (I  have  seen  less  in  a  very  large  one,  with  a 
good  company,  and  two  or  three  London  actors  in  the 
cast.) 

Well,  Mr.  Parish  was  evidently  no  Michael 
Cassio — no  great  arithmetician  ;  but  after  some  little 
difficulty,  he  gradually,  after  a  good  deal  of  puzzling 
and  scratching  of  his  head  (there  was  no  pen,  pencil  or 
paper  in  the  room),  satisfied  himself  that  the  half  of 
£29. 105.  6d.  was  £14. 15s.  3d  ;  whereupon,  making  an 
exact  division,  he  said — 


SCAFFOLDERS.  Ill 

"  Theere  !  theere's  thy  share,  and  here's  moine  ; 
A  've  given  thee  th'  gowd  (gold)  and  th'  flimsy  (bank 
note),  'cause  A  s'pose  yaw  won't  be  wanting  to  carry 
th'  copper;  and  A  can  pay  it  away  to  moy  fowks 
(folks)  at  onest.  So  that's  settled  !  "  said  he. 

"  And  a  very  simple  and  straightforward  settle 
ment  too,  Mr.  Parish  !  " 

"  Whoy,  yaw  see,  sir"  (he  replied),  "A  'm  not  much 
i'  th'  littery  loine  (literary  line) ;  moine's  mostly  head- 
work  ;  A  don't  do  mooch  wi'  pen  an'  ink.  A  'm  a 
scaffolder,  Oi  am  !  " 

"  A  scaffolder  I  Mr.  Parish  ?  " 

"  Aye  ;  we're  open-air  chaps,  we  are ;  we  play 
under  canvas  i'  th'  summer,  and  i'  th'  winter  A  'm 
forced  to  go  into  th'  regular  business,  in  walls;  and 
it  welly  ruins  me.  But  yaw  see,  I  mun  keep  my  peo 
ple  together  agin  th'  summer  time,  or  A  should  lose 
'em.  However,  yaw'll  find  me  aw  reet  (right),  upreet 
and  downreet.  And  now,  sir,  we  mun  hae  a  glass 
togither,  if  yaw  please,  just  to  wet  th'  first  neet,  and 
for  luck  for  th'  others." 

With  that  he  pulled  a  bottle  of  brandy  out  of  a 
capacious  side-pocket  (I  had  observed  the  neck  of  it 
sticking  out,  and  guessed  its  purpose),  poured  me  out 
a  rather  stiff  allowance,  in  the  one  glass  which  was  in 
the  room,  assuring  me  that  it  was  the  "reet  sort."  I 
added  some  water,  which  he  declared  would  "  spile 
(spoil)  it,"  and  drank  to  his  health. 

He  then  poured  himself  out  about  half  a  tumbler, 
and  without  running  the  risk  of  spoiling  it  by  any 
elemental  addition,  shook  hands  with  me  in  the  most 
cordial  manner,  wished  me  "  luck,"  and  drank  it  off. 


112  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Tliis  was  the  system  of  settlement  he  followed 
every  night ;  and,  looking  back  on  the  many  theatres 
I  have  played  in  since,  and  the  many  managers  that 
have  settled  with  me,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  that 
though  it  was  not  the  most  formal,  or  "  high-Roman 
fashion  "  of  settlement,  it  was,  perhaps,  the  fairest  and 
honcstest  that  I  have  ever  been  favored  with. 

The  company  was,  in  fact,  a  $A<w0-company — 
scaifolders — that  played  in  booths  in  summer,  and  in 
winter,  betook  themselves  to  small  theatres,  doing  the 
best  they  could,  and  sharing  the  profits — if  there  were 
any. 

My  two  other  nights  (Holla  and  Hamlet)  produced 
two  excellent  houses,  and  I  took  away  from  this  petty 
place,  as  my  share,  about  £40  ($200). 

I  went  thence  to  Liverpool,  for  twelve  nights,  and 
did  not  do  better  in  that  large  city,  though  Mr.  ELTON, 
(a  London  actor  of  fair  standing,)  played  with  me. 
I  received  £15  per  week,  and  a  clear  half-benefit ; 
iny  benefit  was  about  £90  ($450) ;  so  that  the  two 
weeks  gave  me  about  £75  ($375). 

Poor  Elton  was  lost  in  a  steamer  going  to  Glasgow, 
a  week  or  two  after.  He  was  a  good  actor,  diligent, 
conscientious,  intelligent ;  and  an  estimable  man. 


OLD    MAIDS.  113 


VII. 

RE-ENGAGED  at  Covent  Garden,  1841-42— Old  Maids— A  Fencing  Match— ANGELO 
maitre  d'armes — KNOWLES'S  Last  Play — His  Preaching  against  the  Stage — 
Metrical  jeu  d'exprit —  Miss  ADELAIDE  KEMBLE — Her  Norma — The  Irish 
Heiress— Half  Salaries— List  of  the  Company— The  United  States  in  Perspec 
tive — Farewell  at  Liverpool — Miss  J.  BENNETT — Mrs.  BAEROAV — G.  Y.  BROOKE 
—Decay  of  the  Liverpool  Theatre— Meliora  Speramus— Hey  for  America  1 

AFTER  a  year's  absence  in  the  provinces,  during  which 
I  had  played  a  great  variety  of  parts,  in  tragedy  and 
comedy,  I  was  invited  to  rejoin  the  Covent  Garden 
Company,  still  under  the  Yestris  management. 
Anderson  had  gone  to  Mr.  Macready,  at  Drnry  Lane, 
and  I  was  engaged  to  take  his  place  at  "  the  Garden." 
Knowles  had  written  a  new  play  for  the  Theatre,  en 
titled,  "  Old  Maids,"  in  which  I  made  my  reappear 
ance,  on  the  12th  October,  1841,  and  was  honored 
with  a  very  flattering  reception. 

Mrs.  Nisbett  and  Madame  Yestris  were  the  Old 
Maids  ;  Charles  Mathews,  liarley,  "Walter  Lacy, 
Frank  Mathews,  and  Mrs.  Ilnmby,  were  in  the  cast. 
My  part  was  the  serious  character  in  the  comedy :  a 
young  Claude  Melnotte-y  kind  of  London  apprentice, 
who  falls  in  love  with  Lady  Blanche  (Yestris),  lights  a 
duel  with  Sir  Philip  Brilliant  (Mathews),  who  takes 
him  writh  him  to  the  army,  and  brings  him  back  "  a 


114  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

colonel  and  a  hero,"  to  wed,  of  course,  the  lady  of  his 
love. 

The  point  most  applauded  was  the  duel,  between 
Charles  Mathews  and  myself,  in  the  first  act, — a 
regular  fencing  match,  with  rapiers,  distinguished  by 
great  impetuosity  on  the  part  of  the  young  cit,  met  by 
great  coolness  and  courtesy  on  the  part  of  the  baronet. 
It  never  missed  fire.  ANGELO,  the  great  maitre 
cParmes,  was  present  at  our  last  rehearsal  of  it,  and 
we  had  the  advantage  of  his  suggestions  and  approval. 
Of  course,  therefore,  it  was 

"  A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit ! " 

The  comedy  was  not,  however,  attractive ;  and, 
after  a  (hard)  run  of  thirteen  nights,  it  was  withdrawn. 
It  was  the  last  but  one  of  Knowles's  dramatic  efforts  ; 
this  one,  and  his  tragedy  of  the  "  Bridals  of  Messina," 
produced  last  season,  proved  that  his  imagination  and 
energy  were  on  the  wane :  it  was  time  for  him  to 
make  the  Partridge-cry  of  "  Non  sum  qualis  eram"  I 
suppose  he  felt  this,  for  he  wrote  only  once  moreforiho, 
theatre — the  "  Rose  of  Aragon"  which  was  almost  a 
failure — and  very  shortly  after  took  to  preaching 
against  acting  and  the  Drama  !  O  strange  ! 

"  The  food  that  was  once  as  sweet  to  him  as  locusts,  is  now  as 
bitter  to  him  as  coloquintida  ! " 

But  he  cannot  unwrite  what  he  has  written ;  and 
"Virginias,"  "William  Tell,"  and  the  "  Hunchback," 

"  Shall  plead,  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 
His  deep  damnation 


JEU  D'ESPRIT.  115 

of  the  stage,  and  its  professors !  So,  let  him  preach ! 
"We  will  set  his  dramatic  triumphs  against  his  anti- 
dramatic  diatribes,  his  works  against  his  sermons,  his 
practice  against  his  preaching. 

The  following  metrical  jeu  &  esprit,  by  POOLE 
published  in  the  Argus  newspaper,  gives  a  tolerably 
lucid  account  of  the  plot  and  characters : 

THE  NEW  COMEDY, 

ADAPTED  TO  THE  USE   OF  SCHOOLS  AND  YOUNG  PERSONS. 

Addressed  to  Master  Timothy  Hughes,  for  the  benefit  of  himself 
and  his  fellow  pupils,  at  the  establishment  of  Dr.  Bangputtis^ 
Little  Pedlington,  by  Poole. 

There  was  once — "  But  when  ?'' — Heaven  bless  your  souls, 

To  ask  such  a  question  of  Sheridan  Knowles ! 

There  was  once,  as  I  tell  you,  on  Ludgate-hill, 

(And  "if  he's  not  gone  he  lives  there  still,") 

A  jeweller,  worth  near  a  plum  or  a  lack, 

Whom  his  friends  called  Blount,  and  his  wife  called  Jack. 

The  sight  of  his  shop  always  brought  to  their  anchors 

All  dandies  who  kept  an  account  at  their  bankers. 

There  were  diamond  buckles,  and  amber  canes, 

And  golden  pins,  and  invisible  chains, 

And  emerald  brooches,  and  ruby  rings, 

And,  in  fact,  no  end  of  such  sparkling  things. 

And  the  dandies  they  called  him  a  regular  brick, 

For  the  jeweller  gave  unlimited  tick  ; 

Nay,  rather  than  out  without  buying  you  went, 

He  would  do  your  paper  at  six  per  cent. 

And  besides  all  the  other  good  things  of  his  life, 

He'd  a  couple  of  sons,  and  a  capital  wife. 

And  (whisper  it  not  in  the  streets  of  Gath,  Hughes,) 

He  finds  a  good  double  in  clever  F.  Mathews. 


116  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Sons  he  had  two,  as  I've  said  to  you — and  enough — 

One's  played  by  Harley  and  t'other  by  Vandenhoff — 

(Not  Vandenhoff  pere,  he'sfrere  Jonathan's  visitor. 

But  Yandenhoff^fo,  who  was  bred  a  solicitor ; 

And  for  reasons  the  writer's  unable  to  guess 

Changed  Q.  B.  and  C.  P.  for  0.  P.  and  P.  S.) 

Harley's  a  son  who  attached  to  his  trade  is, 

V.  au  contraire  is  attached  to  the  ladies. 

Harley,  it's  true,  thinks  the  counter  good  sport, 

But  fencing  in  general  is  Vandenhoff's  forte. 

II.  sticks  to  the  shop,  and  he  likes  nothing  lut  it ; 

V.  fights  with  his  stick,  and  he  threatens  to  cut  it. 

In  maidenly  hatred  and  scorn  of  poor  man 

Two  ladies  are  living — as  well  as  they  can. 

The  one  is  called  Blanche  and  the  other's  called  Anne, 

But  to  give  them  those  names  seems  to  me  a  dull  plan  ; 

I've  got  a  much  better — you'll  think  so — it  is  but 

To  call  B.  Madame  Vestris  and  A.  Mrs.  Nisbett. 

I've  left  out  my  hero,  Sir  Philip — my  valet, 

My  footman,  my  coachman,  my  cook,  and  my  Sally, 

They  shall  enter  all  melodramatic  and  mystical, 

So  here  goes  for  the  play  in  a  style  most  artistical. 

ACT  THE  FIRST. 

Two  servants  talk  twaddle ;  then  enter  Sir  P., 
In  such  a  fine  dress  as  you  never  did  see. 
It's  spangled,  it's  ruffled,  it's  slashed,  and  it's  tied, 
There's  glitter  all  out  and  Charles  Mathews  inside. 
His  valet  comes  with  him — examines  his  dress, 
Which  deserves  all  his  praises,  I'm  free  to  confess ; 
He  gives  him  two  crowns,  (for  he's  no  ways  close-fisted) 
For  smoothing  a  wrinkle  that  never  existed  ; 
Then,  changing  his  smile  for  a  visage  much  crueller, 
"Walks  out — for  he's  going  to  blow  up  his  jeweller. 
He  enters  the  shop  (much  like  Rundell  and  Bridge  it's,) 
And  finds  Master  Blount  in  particular  fidgets. 
For  just  as  occurred  in — I  think  it  was — Amilie, 
There  had  been  a  slight  row  'twixt  the  heads  of  the  family. 


OLD   MAIDS.  117 

For  F.  Mathews  was  vexed  at  G.  Vandenhoff's  conduct, 


And  felt  he  should  like  to  have  V.  in  a  pond  ducked ; 

While  mamma  (Mrs.  West)  took  the  part  of  her  son, 

And  talked — a  true  woman— ten  words  to  his  one  ; 

And  all  parties  felt  sulky  as  heart  could  desire, 

When  in  came  Sir  P.  to  add  fuel  to  fire. 

Sir  P. — that's  Charles  Mathews — is  all  in  a  heat 

About  a  fine  gem,  which  he'd  lost  in  the  street — 

"  The  fault  was  your  own,  Mr.  B.,  for  you  set  it ; 

Will  you  give  me  another?  "     "  I  wish  you  may  get  it." 

High  words  are  exchanged,  and  a  row  they'd  have  had, 

But  Vandenhoff  pops  to  the  aid  of  his  dad  ; 

And  by  way  of  at  once  setting  matters  all  right, 

The  knight  and  the  shop-boy  go  out  for  a  fight. 

Now,  this  exquisite  shop-boy,  you'll  please  understand, 

Had  been  taking  six  lessons  of  Mr.  Roland. 

And  proving  by  no  means  a  dolt  or  a  loon, 

"Was  exceedingly  strong  in  his  feint  in  segoon. 

So  they  fell  upon  guard — but  the  juvenile's  skill 

Is  no  match  for  the  cool  and  the  practised  Sir  Phil. 

V.  is  hit,  and  he  faints — and — to  come  to  an  end, 

Sir  Philip  determines  to  make  him  his  friend  ; 

So,  telling  V.'s  father  to  cease  from  his  clavers, 

He  gets  all  his  wounds  healed  and  plastered  by  Travers. 

Then  the  fiddlers  all  into  the  orchestra  scamper, 

And  down  comes  the  drop  scene,  and  up  they  strike  Zampa. 

ACT  THE  SECOND. 

In  the  act  above  mentioned,  (and  eke  in  the  next,) 
To  say'.what  they  do  I  am  rather  perplexed. 
Mr.  Harley,  released  from  his  shop,  takes  high  airs, 
And  is  hocussed,  see.  passim,  u  High  Life  below  Stairs  ;  " 
The  maid-servants  hoax  him  with  malice  infernal, 
And  the  footmen  salute  him  as  lord  and  as  colonel  : 
Pretty  speeches  are  passed  'twixt  the  Anne  and  the  Blanche, 
Whose  heart-snow  they'd  pass  for  a  small  avalanche  ; 
But  the  private  flirtations  and  loves  they  can't  smother, 
In  neatest  blank  verse  they  detail  to  each  other ; 


118  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

And  Sir  Philip's  in  love  with  fair  Blanche,  and  Miss  Anne 
Pretends  to  assist  him,  an  d  does  all  she  can, 
By  flirting  and  teaching  him  Greek  words  and  Latin, 
To  win  him  from  fair  Blanche's  silk  to  her  satin. 

ACT  THE  FOURTH. 

There's  something  important  now  happens  here — which  is, 
Madame  Vestris  from  petticoats  jumps  into  breeches, 
Calls  on  Anne  in  disguise — kisses  maid-servant  Jane, 
When  she  squalls,  Madame  threatens  to  kiss  her  again. 
And  by  this  time  young  VandenhofF's  grown  quite  a  hero, 
With  valor  at  "  boiling,"  and  love  down  at  "  Zero ; " 
And  Blanche,  who  emboldened  by  twenty  per  cent,  is, 
Calls,  dressed  as  a  page,  on  the  ci-devant  'prentice, 
And  really  behaves  most  uncommonly  rude, 
And  rings  all  the  changes  on  jilt  and  on  prude  ; 
Till  Blount,  who  I  really  forgot,  Hughes,  to  mention, 
Had  paid  her  some  little  plebeian  attention. 
Which,  like  that  of  most  men  who  young  ladies  pursue, 
Had  warmed  into  love  when  he  found  'twouldn't  do, 
When  she  libels  his  mistress,  gets  plaguily  raw, 
And  on  the  incognita  threatens  to  draw, 
And  only  keeps  quiet  his  nature  revolting, 
By  making  his  bow,  and  then  instantly  bolting. 

ACT  THE  LAST. 

Le  commencement  dufin,  as  folks  call  the  last  act, 
Has  a  great  deal  of  business,  of  course,  to  transact : 
Sir  Philip  finds  out  that  with  Lady  Anne's  book 
She  has  rather  judiciously  baited  her  hook ; 
And  finding  that  Blanche  has  her  own  fish  to  fry, 
He  takes  Lady  Anne — no  bad  choice  by  the  by. 
Then  Vestris  and  Vandenhoff  make  up  their  match, 
And  John  Blount's  wife  cries  off  when  it  comes  to  the  scratch ; 
And  each  lady  the  other  in  epilogue  aids — 
And  down  comes  the  curtain  at  last  on  Old  Maids. 

On  the  withdrawal  of  Old  Maids,  a  maid  of  a  very 


ADELAIDE   KEMBLE.  119 

different  order,  and  superlative  in  attraction,  succeed 
ed  :  I  mean  Miss  ADELAIDE  KEMBLE,  second  daughter  of 
Charles  Kemble,  and  sister  of  Fanny.  She  made  her 
debut  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  in  Norma,  (English 
version,)  on  the  2d  November,  1841,  with  such  decided 
success,  that  the  Opera  was  repeated  three  times  a 
week,  to  overflowing  houses,  up  to  the  early  part  of 
February  following;  in  all  about  forty  nights!  She 
had  previously  sung,  with  some  success,  at  La  Scala, 
and  other  houses  in  Italy,  where  she  had  received  the 
highest  possible  musical  education  ;  but  in  her  native 
England,  and  in  the  theatre  which  had  been  the  scene 
of  the  Kemble-and-Siddons'  triumphs,  and  which 
might  be  considered  as  her 

"  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place," 

the  furore  she  created  was  unbounded.  The  aristo 
cracy  and  fashion  of  the  metropolis  filled  the  private 
boxes  nightly,  and  the  public  vied  with  each  other 
for  seats  in  the  general  boxes  and  body  of  the  house. 
It  is  a  pleasure  to  say  that  she  fully  merited  the 
enthusiasm  she  excited,  which  is  not  always  the  case  : 
for  the  good  public  just  as  often  allows  itself  to  be 
lashed  into  ecstasies  for  well-trumpeted  humbug,  as  it 
bestows  its  favor  on  real  genius.  In  the  former  case, 
the  factitious  fervor  soon  dies  out ;  in  the  other,  it 
grows  into  a  permanent  and  lasting  flame.  So  it  was 
with  Miss  Adelaide  Kemble.  She  was  a  thorough 
artist,  with  a  fine  voice,  under  admirable  control,  and 
with  perfect  purity  of  intonation.  Add  to  this, 
that  she  possessed  considerable  dramatic  power,  and 
played,  as  well  as  sang  Norma,  with  great  abandon 


120  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

and  natural  passion.  Her  triumph  was  complete; 
and  carried  her  not  only  through  this  season,  but 
through  part  of  the  next.  She  was  shortly  after  mar 
ried  to  M.  Sartoris,  an  Italian  gentleman,  has  retired 
from  the  stage,  and  has  since,  I  believe,  resided  with 
her  husband  at  Rome. 

The  next  new  character  in  which  I  appeared  was 
Stanmore,  in  Bonrcicault's  "  Irish  Heiress," — a  long, 
disagreeable,  but  highly  important  part,  which  I  un 
dertook  at  the  particular  request  of  author  and  man 
agement  ;  because — though  it  was  not  such  a  one  as, 
of  right,  belonged  to  me — there  was  no  other  person  in 
the  theatre,  disengaged,  to  whom  it  was  considered 
safe  to  intrust  it.  It  was  about  thirty  lengths  (1,200 
lines  long,) — a  villain,  without  a  good  point  or  a  re 
deeming  situation.  I  did  the  best  I  could  with  it : 
endeavoring  to  lighten  its  features  somewhat,  by  an 
easy,  gentlemanly,  insouciant  style,  instead  of  making 
him  the  old,  accepted,  conventional  stage- villain,  with 
black  hair,  and  a  scowling  face. 

Bartley,  the  acting  manager,  rather  chuckling  at 
the  up-hill  part  I  had  had,  said  to  my  father,  who  was 
present  the  first  night, — 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  your  son  ?  " 

But  he  took  nothing  by  his  motion;  for,  said 
the  governor,  "  My  son  saved  your  play  ; — that's  what 
I  think." 

Mr.  Plausible  grinned,  and  was  silent. 

The  play,  however,  only  survived  two  nights,  in 
spite  of  a  cast  including  Mr.  Farren,  Mr.  Harley, 
C.  Mathews,  Mrs.  Nisbett,  Madame  Yestris,  and  Mrs. 
Orger.  In  this  country  it  had,  I  have  understood, 
considerable  success  at  the  Park  Theatre. 


A    METROPOLITAN   COMPANY.  121 

I  give  the  following  list  of  the  COVENT  GARDEN 
COMPANY  in  1841-2,  as  a  specimen  of  what  strength 
was  deemed  necessary  in  a  Metropolitan  Theatre,  in 
those  days : — 

GENTLEMEN. 

Acting  and  Stage  Manager : 

Mr.  Geo.  Bartley,  acting  and  stage  manager,  with  a  great  varie 
ty  of  business ;  the  bluff,  hearty  old  man,  peres  nobles,  Falstaff, 
&c. 

Light  Comedy  and  Eccentrics  : 
Charles  Mathews,  (Lessee.)    Walter  Lacy.     F.  Vining. 

Leading  Business: 
Geo.  Vandenhoff.  John  Cooper. 

Old  Men: 
Wm.  Farren.  F.  Mathews.  C.  W.  Granby. 

Low  Comedy: 
J.  P.  Harley.  D.  Meadows. 

Irish  Characters  : 
John    Brougham. 

Heavy  Business: 
C.  Diddear.  J.  Bland. 

Walking  Gentlemen : 
C.  Selby.  A.  Wigan.  H.  Bland. 

Pantomime  and  General  Business: 
Messrs.  Payne.  Messrs.  Morelli. 

"      Honner.  "      J.  Ridgway. 

"      T.  Ridgway. 

LADIES. 
Mrs.  Nisbett.  Madame  Vestris.         Mrs.  Glover. 

6 


122  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Mrs.  "W.  Lacy.  Mrs.  H.  Bland.  Mrs.  Brougham. 

Miss  Cooper.  Miss  Lea.  Mrs.  S.  C.  Jones. 

Mrs.  Selby.  Mrs.  W.  West. 

Columbine : 
Miss  Fairbrother. 
Two  Miss  Kendalls,  with  a  large  Corps  de  Ballet. 

Opera. 

In  addition  to  the  above,  we  had  regularly  engaged, 
to  support 

Miss  A.  Kemble, 

Messrs.  Harrison,  Bynge,  and  Horncastle,  tenors. 
Mr.  Stretton,  larytone. 
Messrs.  Borrani  and  Leffler,  lass ;  and  a  fine  Chorus. 

The  above  list  will  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  a 
full  Company ;  and  of  the  expense  of  conducting  a 
great  London  Theatre,  such  as  Covent  Garden  was. 

There  is  nothing  else,  noteworthy,  that  occurred 
this  season,  except  the  fact  that,  in  spite  of  the  large 
houses  drawn  by  Miss  A.  Kemble,  three  nights  during 
the  week — out  of  which  she,  I  understood,  received 
£20  a  night — half  salaries  only  were  paid  at  the  lat 
ter  portion  of  the  season.  The  fact  is,  we  had  such  a 
full  company,  especially  with  the  additions  that  were 
necessarily  made  to  it  for  the  production  of  opera,  and 
such  a  lavish  expenditure  was  incurred  in  the  getting 
up  of  every  new  play,  that  it  would  have  required 
more  than  extraordinarily  good  houses  nightly,  to  meet 
the  immense  outlay  in  salaries  and  decorations.  The 
consequence  was,  that  the  season  closed  earlier  than 
usual;  and  the  reins  of  management  fell  from  the 


A   FAMILY   TRIO.  123 

hands  of  Yestris  and  Mathews,  and  were  transferred, 
for  the  coming  season,  into  those  of  Mr.  Charles 
Kemble. 

He  very  politely  offered  me  a  renewal  of  my  en 
gagement,  which  I  declined,  with  thanks,  having 
made  up  my  mind  to  try  my  fortune  in  the  United 
States,  from  which  my  father  and  sister  had  just  re 
turned  ;  they  were  engaged  by  Mr.  Kemble  as  his  prin 
cipal  supports. 

I  therefore  put  myself  in  correspondence  with  Mr. 
Simpson,  of  the  Park  Theatre,  and  arranged  with  him 
for  a  fortnight's  engagement  there,  in  September,  1842. 

During  this  year,  I  played  with  my  father  and  sister 
at  Liverpool — the  first,  and  only  time  that  we  ever  ap 
peared  together.  The  plays  selected  were  "  Romeo  and 
Juliet,"  "As  you  like  it,"  "Ion,"  "The  Wife,"  "Love," 
"  The  Hunchback,"  and  "The  Bridals  of  Messina  :  " 
the  latter  we  pla}7ed  four  nights  in  succession.  Our 
joint  engagement  created  considerable  interest,  and 
drew  fine  houses ;  but  my  father,  I  was  sorry  to  see, 
was  very  ill  at  ease  in  playing  with  me,  and  I  felt  no 
less  gene  with  him.  He  could  not  get  over  his  feeling 
of  disappointment  at  my  having  adopted  the  stage  as 
a  profession  :  this  affected  his  acting,  and  I  saw  that 
it  did  :  it  was  continually  betraying  itself,  and  destroy 
ing  his  abstraction,  and  his  self-identification  with  his 
character,  for  the  night.  My  sister  was  aware  of  this, 
too ;  and,  of  course,  she  was  unpleasantly  acted  on  by 
her  consciousness  of  it.  In  fact,  it  threw  us  all  off  our 
balance  ;  and  we  were  very  uncomfortable  all  round. 
The  audience,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  these  "  secret 
stings : "  to  them,  the  affair  was  a  delight,  and  to  us, 


124  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

in  their  eyes,  a  triumph.  They  applauded,  and  called, 
and  bouquet^  us,  night  after  night,  regarding  us  as 
the  happiest,  most  united,  mutually-contented  family 
party  ever  seen  upon  any  stage !  How  true  is  my 

motto — 

Decipit 

Frons  prima  multos,  rara  mens  intelligit 
Quod  interiore  condidit  cura  angulo. 

The  tinsel  glitter,  and  the  specious  mien 
Delude  the  most ;  few  pry  behind  the  scene. 

Previous  to  my  departure  for  the  United  States,  I 
played  a  farewell  engagement  in  Liverpool,  appearing 
in  Macbeth,  Lord  Townley,  The  Stranger,  Faul- 
conbridge,  (Mrs.  WARNEK  was  the  Lady  Macbeth, 
&c.,) — Virginius,  Jacques ;  and,  for  my  farewell  ap 
pearance,  on  the  1st  August,  1842,  Hamlet :  Miss 
JULIA  BENNETT  (Mrs.  Barrow)  was  the  Virginia  and 
Ophelia — at  that  time  in  the  fresh  bloom  of  youthful 
beauty,  almost  girlish  in  appearance,  (she  could  not 
have  been  more  than  twenty,)  and  the  beau  ideal  of 
feminine  softness  and  delicacy. 

G.  V.  BROOKE  was  the  leading  actor  there,  in  the 
full  possession  of  his  voice,  which  he  afterwards  lost, 
to  a  great  extent ;  that  is,  its  tone  became  enfeebled 
and  impaired  ;  under  that  disadvantage  he  was  after 
wards  seen  in  this  country  ;  when,  from  that  very 
defect,  people  were  puzzled  to  know  how  he  had  ac 
quired  his  English  reputation.  At  the  time  I  speak 
of,  he  had  a  noble  organ,  and  great  natural  qualifi 
cations  :  had  his  study  and  culture  been  equal  to  his 
personal  gifts,  he  would  have  been,  really,  a  fine  actor. 

W.   J.  HAMMOND,  who  afterwards  died  in  New 


HEY   FOR    AMERICA  !  125 

York  (in  1848,  I  think),  was  then  the  lessee  and  man 
ager  of  the  Liverpool  Theatre  Royal,  and  in  his  hands 
it  lost  its  high  prestige,  as  the  school  in  which  artists 
were  formed  for  the  London  arena,  to  which  "  in  its 
high  and  palmy  days,"  it  was  the  stepping-stone. 
But  its  glories  were  past ;  it  had  fallen  from  its  high 
estate.  From  being  next  in  rank  to  the  metropolis, 
and  where,  "  as  I  have  heard  my  father  tell,"  John 
Kemble  was  wont  to  say,  a  tragedy  was  as  well  done 
as  in  London,  it  had,  in  1842,  sunk  to  the  level  of  a 
mere  country-theatre.  And  this  fact  of  the  decay  of 
the  Liverpool  Theatre  Royal  was  most  significant  of 
the  general  decline  of  the  drama  in  England,  which 
has  been  going  on  with  a 

"facilis  descensus  Averni," 

ever  since  !  So  I  turned  my  face  to  the  United  States. 
"  Meliora  speramus  !  " 


126  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


VIII. 

COKALIE    WALTON;    THE    COUNTRY 
ACTKESS  : 


from 


No  more  her  sorrows  I  bewail, 
Yet  this  will  be  a  mournful  tale, 
And  they  who  listen  may  believe. 

The  Giaour 


CHAPTER  I.— MYSTERY. 

ODesdemonal  dead  I  dead!  fond]— Othello. 

"  VIRTUE,"  writes  the  accomplished  Mrs.  Jamieson, 
— one  well  qualified  to  speak  authoritatively,  philo 
sophically,  yet  kindly,  on  all  that  concerns  her  own 
sex, — "  Virtue  is  scarcely  virtue  till  it  has  stood  the 
test." 

How  many  proud  virtues  are  there  that  walk  with 
stately  step,  arched  neck,  and  curved  lip,  through 
the  admiring  world,  that  have  won  the  lily-crown 
without  the  martyr-struggle — that  have  held  their 
unruffled  course,  without  trial  or  temptation  to  turn 


CORALIE   WALTON.  127 

them  from  their  flower-strewn  path.  They  are  happy, 
and  should  be  charitable ;  nor  think  too  harshly  of 
those  whose  steps  have  been  through  whirlwind  and 
through  flame  :  no  wonder  if  sometimes  the  poor  head 
grow  dizzy,  the  foot  trip,  the  brain  stagger,  and  the 
victim  fall !  Have  pity  on  her  !  Let  it  not  still  bo 
true  that 

"  Loveliest  things  have  mercy  shown 
To  every  failing  but  their  own, 
And  every  woe  a  tear  can  claim, 
Except  an  erring  sister's  shame  ! " 

There  are,  too,  examples  of  humble,  heroic,  mar 
tyr-virtue,  struggling  against  temptation,  in  obscurity 
and  secret ;  loving  goodness  for  goodness'  sake,  and 
uncheered  by  men's  approval,  unseen  and  unregarded ; 
yet,  like  the  diamond,  preserving  the  heaven-born 
brightness  of  its  unsullied  purity  in  the  depths  of 
darkness  and  of  gloom. 

Of  such  a  one  am  I  now  to  tell  the  simple,  yet 
touching  story.  Poor  Coralie  Walton !  May  the  earth 
lie  lightly  on  thee,  now  thou  sleepest  beneath  it,  for 
whilst  thou  wast  upon  it,  it  was  hard  and  bitter  to 
thee! 

She  was  an  actress  in  a  small  country  theatre,  in 
England,  scarce  more  than  seventeen  years  of  age ; 
her  form  light  as  an  antelope's,  graceful  as  a  fawn's ; 
her  features  of  classic  outline,  yet  soft  as  Hebe's ;  her 
auburn  hair  fell  in  waves,  not  curls,  upon  a  neck  of 
transparent  whiteness  ;  and  her  clear  blue  eye,  when 
it  met  yours,  looked  out — with  the  frankness  of  maiden 
truth — from  beneath  long,  dark  lashes,  veiling  its 
depths,  and  lending  an  additional  softness  to  the  mel- 


128  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ancholy  which  cast  a  gentle  shadow  over  a  face  too 
young  for  sorrow,  and  yet  too  serious  for  happi 
ness. 

My  first  of  five  performances  at  the  S Theatre 

was  to  be  Yirginius.  I  learned  by  the  bill,  which  the 
call-boy  handed  to  me  in  the  morning,  that  the  Virgi 
nia  was  to  be  a  Miss  Coralie  Walton  ;  and  I  met  her  at 
rehearsal.  She  was  dressed  in  remarkably  good  taste  ; 
very  plainly,  but  very  neatly.  Her  toilette  was  the 
simplest  possible  ;  evidently  of  no  very  expensive 
materials,  yet  so  harmonious  in  its  simplicity,  and  so 
exquisitely  adapted  to  the  person  of  the  wearer,  so 
well  fitting  her  shape,  so  scrupulously  clean,  so  trim, 
that  it  never  entered  one's  head  to  remark  the  ma 
terials,  satisfied  with  the  completeness  of  the  general 
effect.  She  was  a  little — the  least  in  the  world — above 
the  middle  size ;  and  she  looked  like  a  young  lady 
in  her  morning  dress — I  speak  of  course  of  countries 
where  a  lady  is  never  seen  at  breakfast  in  brocade  and 
diamonds !  The  manager  introduced  her,  and  her 
salutation  was  perfectly  easy,  and  comme  ilfaut ;  dis 
tant,  as  to  a  stranger  ;  yet  not  stiif  or  over-formal, 
that  stranger  being  a  brother-artist. 

In  rehearsing,  she  was  literally  exact  in  the  text ; 
appeared  familiar  with  the  accustomed  business*  of 
the  scene  ;  and  she  received  any  little  suggestion  that 
I  made  to  her,  with  politeness,  and  a  silent  bend  of 
acknowledgment.  She  wore  a  veil  at  first,  but  when 
she  commenced  the  scene,  she  raised  it  for  the  con- 

*  It  may  be  necessary  to  explain  to  the  general  reader,  that  what 
the  actor  calls  the  business  of  a  scene,  is  the  movement,  the  doings, 
and  the  changes  of  relative  position,  by  which  it  is  accompanied. 


COBALIE   WALTON. 

venience  of  our  set-dialogue  ;  so  that  I  had  a  fair  op 
portunity  of  remarking  the  delicacy  and  nobleness  of 
her  features.  At  the  conclusion  of  her  share  in  the 
rehearsal,  she  bowed  and  left  the  Theatre. 

We  had  not  exchanged  twenty  words,  and  yet  I 
felt  myself  strangely  interested  in  her.  I  inquired 
of  the  manager  who  she  was  :  he  knew  nothing  of 
her  history,  lie  said  ;  she  had  come  amongst  them 
about  twelve  months  ago  ;  had  presented  herself  to 
him,  an  utter  stranger,  without  recommendation  or 
introduction,  soliciting  employment  in  his  theatre. 
Struck  by  the  modesty,  and  what  he  called  the  gen 
tility  of  her  appearance,  he  had  given  her  an  engage 
ment  to  play  the  "  walking-ladies,"  at  a  very  moderate 
weekly  remuneration,  for  which  she  expressed  herself 
extremely  grateful.  Her  attention  to  her  duties  had 
been  so  exemplary,  he  said,  her  general  conduct  so 
winning,  and  her  improvement  so  rapid,  that,  on  hia 
leading-lady  suddenly  leaving  him,  six  months  since, 
in  a  huff,  for  some  fancied  slight  to  her  dignity,  he 
had  put  Miss  AValton  into  her  place,  at  first  as  an 
experiment  merely;  but,  finding  that  she  acquitted 
herself  in  her  new  position  with  satisfaction  to  the 
audience  and  to  himself,  he  had  retained  her  in  it. 
"  And  never,"  he  added,  "  was  there  a  more  obliging, 
or  ready  creature  :  she  has  a  remarkably  quick  study, 
and  will  sit  up  all  night  to  get  up  in  a  new  part,  if  I 
ask  her." 

"  You  don't  ask  her,  often,  I  hope  ?  "  said  I,  feeling 
how  likely  such  a  disposition  was  to  be  taken  advan 
tage  of. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "in  a  country  theatre,  we  are 


130  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

sometimes  obliged  to  get  ready  in  pieces,  in  a  great 
hurry ;  and  we  can't  be  very  nice  about  calling  on 
our  people ;  and  you  stars,  you  know,  require  your 
plays  to  be  perfect :  so  all  have  to  stir  themselves." 

u  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  suppose  it  is  so.  But  she  seems 
sad,  melancholy.  Has  she  no  friends?  Is  she  an 
orphan  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  manager  ;  "  there's  some 
mystery  about  her.  She  never  mentions  her  family. 
I  once  hinted  at  her  connections — her  home.  '  Home  ! ' 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  dark,  lowering  look,  such  as  I 
had  never  seen  on  her  face  before,  and  with  a  sort  of 
a  shudder,  I  thought.  Then,  after  a  pause,  she  added, 
1  Never  mention  that  word  to  me  again.  I  will  faith 
fully  perform  all  my  duties,  and  I  thank  you  for  the 
employment  you  have  given  me ;  but  never,  never, 
talk  to  me  of  home  again,  if  you  desire  me  to  remain 
with  you ! '  Since  then,  I  have,  of  course,  been  silent 
on  the  subject.  My  wife  is  very  much  attached  to 
her ;  but  she  rather  avoids  society,  and  nothing  can 
draw  her  into  confidence." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  I  said ;  "  and  if  her 
talents  be  at  all  equal  to  her  personal  attractions,  she 
must  soon  be  transplanted  to  a  London  Theatre." 

"  O,  she  has  already  had  a  very  good  offer  from 
London,  which  she  has  declined  ;  this  much  she  con 
fided  to  my  wife,  one  day,"  said  the  manager. 

"  She  is  biding  her  time,  perhaps,"  I  said  ;  "  and 
waits  till  she  can  go  to  London  in  a  more  assured  po 
sition,  by  practice  and  experience.  If  so,  I  commend 
her ;  she  is  right. 

"  No,"  replied  the  manager ;  "  she  told  my  wife, 


CORALIE    WALTON.  131 

who  pressed  her  with  a  woman's  curiosity,  that  she 
never  would  set  foot  in  London  again." 

"Again?  then  she  came  from  thence?"  I  sug 
gested. 

u  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  manager ;  "  that's 
what  she  said,  however.  Excuse  me,  I  see  there's  the 
printer's  devil ;  I  must  make  out  to-morrow's  bill : 
Othello,  eh?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  if  it's  agreeable  to  you." 

"  Perfectly,"  and  we  parted ;  the  manager  to 
make  out  his  bill,  I  to  my  hotel,  and  my  early  dinner. 

During  my  solitary  meal, — the  inevitable  sole  and 
mutton  chop,  and  half-pint  of  sherry, — 1  confess  my 
thoughts  would  run  on  the  lovely  Coralie  "Walton,  and 
the  seeming  mystery  that  overhung  her.  I  longed  fe 
verishly  for  seven  o'clock,  that  I  might  see  her  act,  and 
observe  how  she  would  acquit  herself  on  the  stage ; 
for  a  rehearsal  gives  little  insight  into  an  actor  or 
actress's  capabilities.  Virginia  is  not  a  great  part ; 
but  it  would  be  sufficient  to  call  forth  her  sensibilities 
and  pathos,  if  she  possessed  them ;  so  I  waited  for  six 
o'clock  ;  then  went  down  to  the  Theatre  rather  earlier 
than  usual,  found  some  boys  already  flattening  their 
noses  at  the  gallery  door,  and  some  eager  pit-ites 
gathering  by  degress. 

There  was  a  good  house.  I  got  through  my  first 
scene,  and  came  to  the  second  one,  in  which  Virginia 
enters.  I  was  nervously  anxious  to  see  how  she 
would  look,  in  the  simple  Roman  drapery  of  the 
character.  When  I  gave  the  cue  for  her  entrance,  I 
declare  I  felt  my  heart  beat  quickly — and  why  ?  I 
know  not  1 


132  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

With  my  back  to  her  place  of  entrance,  I  did  not 
hear  her  light  foot,  which,  encased  in  its  little  sandal, 
made  (in  the  language  of  the  text  of  this  very  play,) 

"  a  sound  so  fine 
That  nothing  lives  'twixt  it  and  silence ;  " 

but  a  positive  thrill  through  the  house,  and  a  burst 
of  admiring  applause,  told  me  that  she  was  on ;  the 
next  moment  she  was  at  my  side. 

So  sweet  a  vision  I  had  never  seen !  She  was  the 
perfection  of  girlish  beauty,  the  type  of  classic  grace, 
the  ideal  of  feminine  softness,  all  tinged  and  shaded 
by  a  pervading  sadness.  Having  very  slightly,  and 
I  thought,  rather  contemptuously,  acknowledged  the 
reception  given  her  by  the  audience,  she  commenced 
the  dialogue,  in  the  most  sadly  musical  voice  that 
ever  fell  upon  my  ear. 

I  paused  a  moment, — gazing  upon  her  with  what 
might  at  least  pass  for  a  father's  pride  in  his  lovely 
child,  but  which  I  fear  had  a  deeper  admiration  in  it — 
before  I  answered  her ;  and  when  I  did,  I  found  my 
own  voice  unwittingly  subdued  almost  to  the  quality 
of  hers  ;  she  filled  me  with  respect,  with  tender 
interest ;  and  the  scene  that  followed  was  listened  to 
with  breathless  attention,  and  straining  eyes ;  you 
might  have  heard  a  pin  drop,  so  silent  was  the  house. 
When,  with  the  words, 

"  Kiss  me,  my  girl," 

I  printed  a  paternal  kiss  upon  her  clear  white  fore 
head,  I  felt  a  thrill  run  through  me,  that  told  me  how 
thin  was  the  partition  that  divides  sympathy  from 
love. 


CORALIE   WALTON.  133 

She  played  Virginia  sweetly  ;  delivering  the  text 
with  remarkable  intelligence  and  sensibility;  her 
gestures  and  attitudes  were  marked  by  that  grace 
which  is 

"  beyond  the  reach  of  art," 

and  which  nature  alone  can  give. 

One  thing,  in  her  scenes  with  Icilius,  struck  me 
strangely;  she  seemed  almost  to  shrink  from  her 
lover,  not  merely  with  a  woman's  natural  timidity, 
but  as  if  she  shunned  his  touch  as  hateful  to  her ; 
and  when,  in  that  solemn  betrothment,  in  the  second 
act,  I  placed  her  hand  in  his,  with  the  adjuration  to 
him, 

"  Yoa  will  be  all  her  father  has  been, 
Added  to  all  a  lover  should  be, — 

•when  with  these  solemn  words  I  placed  her  hand  in 
his,  I  am  sure  I  observed  a  shudder,  a  frisson,  pass 
through  her  frame.  Strange  !  Could  it  be  a  wo 
man's  affectation, — mere  coquttterie  ?  May  be  ;  women 
are  hard  to  fathom.  May  I  say  of  myself,  that  I 
never  played  Yirginius  with  such  elan,  such  truth 
fulness  of  feeling,  before  or  since.  As  I  advanced 
into  the  part,  this  young,  beautiful  creature,  became 
really  to  me 

"  my  cherish'd 
And  most  deservedly  beloved  child: " 

she  clung  to  me  with  a  gentle,  confiding  tenderness, 
as  if  she  would  fain  throw  herself,  with  all  her  fears, 
her  griefs,  her  sufferings,  upon  a  father's  love.  Tears 
streamed  from  her  uplifted  eyes ;  I  caught  the  infec- 


134  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

tion  ;  and  the  audience  wept,  and  women  sobbed  in 
sympathy. 

At  the  close  of  the  fourth  act,  which  ends  with 
Virginias'  sacrificing  his  daughter's  life  to  save  her 
honor, — as  the  curtain  fell,  there  was  a  simultaneous 
outburst  of  enthusiasim,  and  a  prolonged  call  for  our 
re-appearance.  I  went  towards  the  place  where  I 
had  laid  her  down  as  I  stabbed  her,  and  found  her 
surrounded  by  the  ladies  of  the  Theatre,  who  were 
applying  restoratives  to  her  nostrils  and  temples. 
When  they  had  come  to  raise  her  from  the  stage, 
they  found  her  insensible  ;  she  had  fainted,  and  I 
suppose  remained  in  that  state  till  the  curtain  fell. 
She  was  now  gradually  recovering ;  a  little  cologne 
and  water,  brought  from  my  dressing-room  and  pour 
ed  into  her  lips,  awakened  her  to  consciousness ;  she 
gazed  wildly  around,  and  on  recognizing  her  situation, 
burst  into  an  hysteric  passion  of  tears.  These  she  re 
strained  by  a  strong  effort  of  her  will.  The  "  call "  con 
tinued  loudly  in  front  of  the  house  ;  and  on  the  mana 
ger  asking  her  if  she  was  not  now  able  to  go  on,  she 
placed  her  hand  calmly  and  silently  in  mine,  walked 
on  with  me  before  the  curtain,  like  one  in  her  sleep, 
passed  across  the  stage,  mechanically  saluting  the 
audience,  and  the  moment  she  was  out  of  their  sight 
disengaged  her  hand  from  mine,  and  without  a  word, 
hurried  away.  I  saw  her  no  more  that  night. 

The  next  day's  rehearsal  was  Othello,  for  the  night. 
She  was  on  the  stage  in  due  time,  looking  paler  and 
more  subdued  than  ever.  To  my  inquiries  after  her 
health,  she  replied  that  she  was  much  better  now ; 


CORALIE   WALTON.  135 

the  heat  of  the  Theatre  had  been  too  much  for  her, 
she  said,  that  was  all. 

But  I  observed  her  frequently  apply  her  handker 
chief  to  her  lips,  and  I  fancied  I  perceived  the  stain 
of  blood  on  it,  when  she  withdrew  it.  "  Poor  child !  " 
I  thought,  "  is  it  so  ?  " 

She  rehearsed  Desdemona  in  a  very  low  voice,  as 
if  speaking  were  painful  to  her.  We  scarcely  ex 
changed  a  word  together,  out  of  the  set  dialogue,  in 
which  she  was  scrupulously  perfect ;  and  I  could  only 
endeavor  to  express  a  silent  sympathy. 

When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  I  spoke  to  the  man 
ager,  representing  what  I  had  observed,  and  ventur 
ing  to  say  to  him,  that  I  really  thought  Miss  Wal 
ton  was  too  ill  to  continue  playing  thus,  night  after 
night. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? "  he  said,  "  she's  in  every 
piece  you  play;  I  don't  know  how  to  supply  her 
place.  To-morrow  '  Wild  Oats,'  you  know ;  and 
she's  up  for  Lady  Amaranth." 

"  Can't  we  change  the  play,"  I  said  ;  "  do  Mac 
beth  ;  let  your  wife  play  Lady  Macbeth,  which  of 
course  she  has  often  done ;  and  give  Miss  Walton  at 
least  a  night's  rest." 

"  Yery  good,"  said  the  kindly  manager,  "  be  it  so ! 
I  shall  be  glad  to  spare  her  a  night." 

"  The  night  after,  we  can  do  Pizarro ;  you  can 
get  on  without  her  for  Cora,  I  dare  say." 

"  Well,  we'll  try,"  said  the  manager. 

So  there  were  two  nights'  respite  for  the  poor 
girl. 

As  Desdemona,  she  looked  charmingly ;   but  in 


136  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

her  acting  there  was  this  remarkable  peculiarity, 
that,  as  she  shrank  from  Icilius's  love  last  night,  this 
night  she  shrank  from  Othello's,  and  really  seemed 
to  shudder  at  my  embrace  !  What  could  it  mean  ? 

The  last  scene,  in  the  chamber,  she  played  with 
terrible  earnestness :  her  asseverations  of  innocence, 
her  prayers  for  mercy,  her  agonized  supplications,  her 
heart-rending  shrieks,  and  her  convulsive  death- 
struggle,  tore  my  heart,  and  made  me  really 

"  call  that  a  murder  which 
I  thought  a  sacrifice." 

The  death-calm  into  which  she  fell,  when  the  deed 
was  completed,  was  no  less  terrible  to  me.  I  could 
not  help  fearing  that  she  was  dead  ;  a  chill  came  over 
me  ;  for  if  so,  'twas  I  that  had  killed  her !  When  I 
put  my  hand  on  her  heart,  in  the  action  of  the  scene, 
as  she  lay  there  more  white  than  snow, 

"  and  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster," 

there  was  no  throbbing;  her  pulse  seemed  motionless, 
her  breath  would  not  have  stirred  a  feather !  Oh, 
how  I  longed  for  the  scene  to  end  ! 

The  knocking  at  the  door  came;  Emilia  entered, 
and,  at  the  proper  time,  approached  the  bed  where 
Desdemona  lay  ;  how  eagerly  I  listened  for  the  dying 
words — 

"  A  guiltless  death  I  die.     Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord  I  " — 
but  they  came  not.    To  Emilia's  question, 
"Who  hath  done  this?" 


CORALIE   WALTON.  137 

she  returned  no  answer;  all  was  silent,  still  as  the 
grave  ! 

Good  God !  could  she  ~be  really  dead  f  There  was 
no  time  for  thought;  I  hurried  through  the  scene. 
Emilia,  the  manager's  wife,  was  evidently  as  anxious 
as  I.  I  thought  every  one,  who  had  to  speak,  drawled 
out  their  words  with  maddening  deliberation.  I  raced 
through  mine  like  one  bewildered  !  At  last,  lago  has 
left  the  stage ;  one  more  speech ;  Othello  strikes  the 
poniard  to  his  heart,  and,  thank  God !  the  curtain  is 
down. 

I  sprang  up  from  the  stage ;  rushed  to  the  bed ; 
but  she,  she  moved  not,  stirred  not ;  there  she  lay 
pale  as  her  sheets,  unconscious  as  the  grave ! 

"  Water,  for  Heaven's  sake,  water !  "  I  shrieked. 
Water  was  brought,  and  her  hands  and  temples  were 
bathed  with  it.  The  kind  wife  of  the  manager  held 
smelling-salts  to  her  nostrils,  and  endeavored  to  force 
sal  volatile  and  water  through  her  teeth.  At  length, 
she  slowly  opened  her  eyes,  gave  a  sigh,  and  a  burst 
of  hysterics  followed. 

u  Thank  God  !  "  I  exclaimed,  for  I  knew  then*  she 
was  safe.  In  this  state,  she  was  carried,  wrapt  up,  to 
the  Green-Room  ;  her  corset  was  cut ;  a  physician  was 
sent  for,  and  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  sent 
to  her  lodgings  in  a  carriage,  under  the  care  of  the 
manager's  wife,  who,  in  her  stage  clothes,  just  as  she 
was,  attended  her;  carrying  out  the  service  of  Emilia 
to  her  mistress,  beyond  the  limits  of  the  mimic  scene. 
Ah !  there  is  much  kind  feeling  behind  the  scenes 
of  a  theatre,  when  it  is  really  called  for,  whatever 
jealousies,  envies,  and  heart-burnings  may  have  scope 


138  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

there  at  ordinary  times.    But  where  do  these  not  have 
play  f 

As  for  me,  all  night  long,  that  calm,  impassible 
face — 

tt  So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  fair. 
As  if  the  soul  were  wanting  there  " — 

haunted  me,  and  banished  sleep  from  my  eyelids. 


CORALIE  WALTON.  139 


IX. 

COKALIE  WALTOK 
CHAPTER  II.— LOVE— THE  AMATEUR. 

Why,  what  were  life — what  were  it  worth  ?  though  rich 
In  all  that  makes  its  worth,  unless  made  rich 
By  her  dear  love,  the  riches  paramount, 
And  crown  of  all !— MS.  Play. 

1  WAS  glad  to  learn  the  next  day,  that  Miss  "Walton 
was  quite  composed.  Rest,  the  surgeon  said,  was  all 
she  needed  ;  a  few  days  would  restore  her.  The  two 
next  nights,  she  would  not  be  called  on  to  appear, 
fortunately  ;  but  the  third  was  my  "  benefit  and  last 
night."  The  play  fixed  on  was  "  Hamlet,"  and  she 
was  to  be  the  Ophelia.  I  besought  the  manager  to 
change  it,  but  he  was  inexorable ;  "  for,"  said  he,  "  it 
is  the  strongest  play  we  could  put  up  with  your 
name ;  and  there  will  be  a  great  house." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  what  are  a  few  pounds'  difference 
in  the  receipts,  compared  to  the  risk  of  the  health, 
perhaps  the  life,  of  this  poor  child  ? " 

"  I  am  just  as  sorry  for  her,"  he  replied,  "  as  you 
are  ;  but,  you  see,  I  know  all  about  it.  Half  of  it  is 


140  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

mere  nervousness,  the  result  of  a  little  love-affair,  in 
•which  she  was  disappointed ;  and  love  scenes  awaken 
the  recollection  of  it." 

"  Ha !  "  I  said,  "  that  then  explains  "— 

"  To  be  sure  it  does,"  he  said,  interrupting  me 
"  did  not  you  see  she  could  not  stand  them  ?     Now, 
there  is  no  love  scene  in  i  Hamlet ; '  she'll  get  on  well 
enough  in  Ophelia — you'll  see." 

"  Pray,"  I  said,  "  may  I  ask  "— 

"  Ha !  "  he  interrupted,  "  I  see  you're  interested. 
"Well,  step  into  my  room,  sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you  as 
much  as  I  know  of  it ;  which  is  not  much,  after  all." 

I  eagerly  assented.  "We  seated  ourselves,  and  the 
manager  began : 

"  Of  course,  a  girl  like  this,  with  her  attractions, 
has  had  hosts  of  followers ;  half  the  young  fellows  of 

the  place  have  gone  crazy  about  her.     At  L , 

the  town  where  we  play  in  the  winter,  the  son  of  the 
richest  landed  proprietor  in  the  neighborhood,  wrote 
letter  after  letter  to  her ;  sending  her  the  most  costly 
presents,  and  making  her  the  most  extravagant  offers, 
if  she  would  accept  his  protection." 

"  And  how  did  she  receive  these  proposals  ?  " 

"  Yery  calmly,  but  very  decidedly.  She  did  not 
get  up  any  scene,  nor  make  any  explosion.  She  came 
to  me  one  day,  with  two  letters,  and  a  casket  con 
taining  a  necklace,  brooch,  and  ear-rings,  in  magnifi 
cent  pearls, — '  Mr.  Henderson,'  said  she,  '  I  am  here 
utterly  friendless  and  unprotected,  unless  I  can  rely 
upon  your  kindness.'  I  assured  her  I  should  be  happy 
to  serve  her.  'Then,'  said  she,  'do  me  the  favor  to 
return  these  letters,  and  this  casket,  to  Mr. , 


COBALIE   WALTON.  141 

and  request  him  to  desist  from  troubling  me  with  any 
further  notice.  I  presume,' she  added,  'as  an  actress, 
I  am  exposed  to  these  importunities  ;  but  I  wish  you 
to  tell  him  that  I  consider  them  insults,  nevertheless, 
and  that,  if  he  is  a  gentleman  really,  he  will  at  once 
desist  from  them.  You  may  add,'  she  continued, c  that 
I  have  left  word  at  the  door,  that  no  message  from 
him  shall  be  received  ;  and  the  servant-girl  has  liberty 
to  keep  any  presents  that  he  may  send  to  me  in  future ; 
therefore,  beg  him  not  to  waste  his  time  and  money 
on  one  who  is  so  utterly  insensible  as  I  am.'  All  this 
she  said  without  any  display  of  indignation,  but  with 
a  contemptuous  coolness,  by  no  means  flattering  to  its 
object." 

"  And  how  did  you  proceed,"  I  inquired. 

"  I  executed  her  commission,"  he  replied,  "  to  the 

letter.  '  And  who  the are  yon,  sir,'  said  the 

young  swell,  '  to  interfere  in  this  matter  ?  You  Ve 
only  the  manager  of  a  twopenny  theatre.'  *  Yes,'  I 
replied ;  c  one  thing  more.'  *  What's  that  ? '  said  he. 
4  A  man,'  I  replied,  '  that  will  not  stand  by  and  see  a 
good  girl  insulted,  merely  because  her  position  ex 
poses  her.'  '  "Well,  we  shall  see,'  he  said.  '  We 
shall,'  I  replied,  and  left  him.  For  a  time,  his  perse 
cution  seemed  to  have  ceased ;  and  he  stayed  away 
entirely  from  the  theatre.  One  night  he  came,  some 
what  excited  with  wine,  raved  about  the  lobbies  in  a 
frantic  manner;  and,  the  next  day,  commenced  the 
biege  more  pertinaciously  than  ever.  Letters  and 
presents  rained  in  upon  her,  sometimes  left  at  her 
lodgings,  and  sometimes  at  the  theatre.  She  never 
opened  them,  but  they  were  handed  at  once  to  me. 


142  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Meantime,  he  made  a  hundred  ineffectual  attempts  to 
introduce  himself  to  her,  all  of  which  were  defeated 
by  the  wit  of  an  Irish  servant-girl,  who  barred  his 
entrance  with  a  thousand  excuses,  and,  I  verily  be 
lieve,  would  have  broken  his  head  with  her  flat-iron, 
rather  than  have  let  him  cross  the  threshold.  'Arrah  ! 
what  would  he  be  botherin'  the  darlint  for,7  said 
Biddy  ;  '  bad  cess  to  him  !  if  it's  wanting  a  sweetheart 
she  was,  it's  not  such  a  spalpane  as  that  she'd  be 
takin' ! ' 

At  last,  my  young  f  arioso  comes  to  me,  and 
demands  to  know  the  meaning  of  it  all :  '  She  has 
received  my  presents,'  says  he,  '  and  now  she  puts  on 
airs,  and  pretends  she  won't  see  me.'  '  Your  pre 
sents,'  said  I,  '  she  has  never  even  seen  ;  both  they 
and  your  letters  have  been  placed  unopened  in  my 
hands  ;  and,  as  they  now  amount  to  a  large  parcel,  I 
purpose  sending  them  back  this  evening.'  <  Bah  ! ' 
said  he,  '  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it ;  it's  a  deep  game 
you're  all  playing ;  I  see  what  you're  at ;  you're  in 
league  with  her  to  hook  me  in ;  but  it  won't  do,  I  tell 
you.'  <  You  will  have  proof,'  I  said,  '  before  the 
evening  is  over,  of  what  my  game  is,  and,  I  believe, 
it  will  rather' surprise  you.'  He  left  me,  with  threats 
of  vengeance  on  me  and  my  theatre;  his  father 
was  a  magistrate,  he  said,  and  he  would  have  me 
drummed  out  of  the  town.  '  I  am  glad,'  I  replied. 
c  you  have  mentioned  your  father,  because  it  is 
to  him  I  intend  to  appeal.'  l  Appeal,  and  be 
d d,'  he  said,  and  broke  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  had  already  made  up  my  mind  as  to  my  course  : 
I  packed  up  all  his  letters  and  presents  into  one  par- 


COBALIE  WALTON.  143 

eel,  and  sent  them  that  very  evening  to  his  father, 
with  a  note,  explaining  his  son's  folly,  and  requesting 
him  to  use  his  authority  to  put  an  end  to  the  persecu 
tion." 

"  That,  of  course,  was  effectual  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Yes,  "  he  continued :  "  the  young  inamorato  was 
seen  here  no  more ;  and  we  learnt  that  he  had  been 
sent  by  his  father,  at  an  hour's  notice,  on  business  to 
Germany.  The  old  gentleman  wrote  me  a  note  of 
thanks,  and  sent  a  gold  watch  for  Miss  "Walton,  which, 
at  her  request,  I  immediately  returned  to  him.  Bah  ! 
these  rich  people  think  a  jewel  or  a  trinket  is  like 
Hotspur's  fop's  '  parmeceti,'  l  the  sovereign'st  remedy 
for  an  inward  bruise  ! ' : 

"  But  this,"  I  asked,  "  is  not  the  love  affair  that 
Miss  Walton's  nerves  are  suffering  from  ?  " 

"  O,  no,"  replied  Mr.  Henderson;  "that's  quite  a 
different  matter.  That  happened  here.  But  it's  din 
ner-time  now :  I'll  finish  the  story  to-night,  after  the 
play." 

Macbeth  never  seemed  so  long  and  so  tedious  to  me 
as  on  that  evening.  From  Mrs.  Henderson,  who  played 
Lady  Macbeth,  I  learned,  with  delight,  between  the 
acts,  that  Miss  Walton  had  slept  through  the  greater 
part  of  the  day,  and  was  much  refreshed  by  it,  and 
tolerably  tranquil.  At  length,  I  was  slain  by  Mac- 
duff,  after  the  usual  "  terrific  "  cut  and  thrust  fight : 
never  was  death  more  welcome !  I  hurried  to  my 
dressing-room,  undressed,  re-dressed  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time,  hastened  to  the  manager,  dragged 
him  to  the  hotel,  and  having  snatched  a  hasty  supper, 
ordered  the  "  materials  "  and  cigars,  and  begged  him 
to  finish  his  story. 


144  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

*  "  What  I  have  related  to  you  so  far,  took  place," 

he  said,  "tit  L ,  the  other  town  where  we  play  in 

the  winter.  We  left  there  for  this  place  shortly  after; 
and  here  Miss  Walton's  admirers  were  numerous.  I 
really  believe  she  might  have  married  well,  if  she  had 
chosen  ;  but  she  positively  forbade  me  to  introduce 
any  of  them  to  her,  and  acquired,  at  length,  the  sobri 
quet,  among  the  young  fellows,  of  the  man-hater. 

"  Among  the  most  ardent  and  most  respectful  of 
her  worshippers,  was  a  handsome  youth,  named  Lionel 
Hansom.  He  was  the  son  of  a  deceased  officer  in  the 
army; residing  with  his  mother.  By  her  death,  shortly 
after  my  first  acquaintance  with  him,  he  came  into 
possession  of  ready  money  to  the  amount  of  about  two 
thousand  pounds.  He  was  an  elegant  young  fellow, 
only  just  of  age,  without  any  profession  or  occupa 
tion  :  he  had  always  been  intended  for  the  army  ;  but, 
from  want  of  means  or  influence,  his  mother  had  failed 
to  procure  a  commission  for  him.  He  had  obtained  a 
small  income  from  his  pen,  by  contributions  to  local 
papers,  and  sometimes  to  a  second-rate  magazine ;  and 
was  altogether  a  very  accomplished,  taking,  young 
chap.  His  admiration  of  Miss  Walton  approached  to 
worship ;  but  she  repelled  every  attempt  at  an  intro 
duction.  He  was  in  despair;  and  sat  at  the  theatre 
every  night,  devouring  Coralie  with  his  eyes.  I 
placed  him  on  the  free  list,  as  the  only  compliment  I 
could  make  to  his  devotion ;  but  he  more  frequently 
paid,  than  took  advantage  of  the  privilege.  At  length, 
one  day,  he  came  to  me  at  the  theatre,  and  told  me 
he  had  resolved  to  go  upon  the  stage,  and  wished  to 
commence  with  me.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  endea- 


CORALIE   WALTON.  145 

vored  to  dissuade  him.  He  had  made  up  his  mind, 
he  said ;  he  thought  he  had  talents  for  the  stage,  and 
no  other  profession  was  open  to  him.  He  had  some 
money,  at  present,  and  would  play  at  first  without 
any  pecuniary  compensation,  if  I  would  give  him 
some  instructions  in  the  details  of  the  business.  Of 
course  I  saw  through  the  inspiring  motive  of  his  re 
solution  :  it  was  to  be  near  the  object  of  his  adoration. 
Finding  him  immovably  determined,  I  agreed  that  he 
should  have  an  appearance ;  and  that,  if  successful, 
he  should  continue  to  play  with  me,  occasionally, 
such  parts  as  he  might  select,  with  ample  time  and 
opportunity  for  their  study,  under  my  superintend 
ence. 

"  Romeo  was  the  part  he  chosed  for  his  debut : 
well  I  understood  the  reason  why.  It  would  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  pouring  out  his  passion,  unre- 
proved,  in  the  most  beautiful  of  language,  in  the  ear 
of  her  who  was  the  Juliet  of  his  soul.  I  enquired  un 
der  what  name  he  would  be  announced.  '  Under  my 
own?  he  replied ;  c  I  am  doing  nothing  to  dishonor 
it ;  and  I  will  show  her — that  is — I  will  show  every- 
body,  that  I  am  not  ashamed  of  the  profession  I 
adopt.'  'You  are  wrong,  Mr.  Ransom,'  I  said  ;  4  but 
you  must  have  your  own  way.' 

"  He  was  already  perfect  in  the  words  of  Romeo : 
I  instructed  him  in  the  business  and  action :  he 
fenced  well,  and  his  carriage  was  that  of  a  soldier 
and  a  gentleman.  He  had  a  fine,  dark  eye,  an  al 
most  olive  complexion,  with  a  tinge  of  red  in  his 
cheek;  and  long,  black,  wavy  hair.  All  that  he 
wanted  to  complete  his  appearance  for  Romeo,  was  a 


146  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

befitting  costume ; — that  he  procured  from  a  first-rate 
costumer  in  London  ;  and  then  he  announced  to  me 
that  he  was  ready. 

"  It  had  been,  somehow,  tacitly  understood  be 
tween  us,  that  not  a  word  was  to  be  said  to  Miss  Wal 
ton  about  his  intention,  until  he  should  meet  her  at 
rehearsal.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  was  introduced 
to  her.  He  turned  very  pale  as  he  spoke  to  her.  She 
was  perfectly  cool,  collected,  and  indifferent :  for  I 
don't  really  suppose  she  had  ever  spent  a  thought  on 
him.  The  rehearsal  passed  off  very  well;  he  was 
perfect,  steady,  and  certain  in  the  business  in  which  I 
had  instructed  him  ;  and  his  reading  of  the  text  was 
full  of  intelligence  and  feeling ;  though  he  evidently, 
to  my  eye,  restrained  himself  in  its  expression.  I 
gave  him  three  more  rehearsals,  and  announced  him 
for  the  Monday  following,  under  his  own  name,  as  he 
had  required. 

"  Public  curiosity  and  wonder  were  excited  to  an 
extraordinary  pitch :  for  he  was  well-known  in  the 
town  ;  and  the  house  was  crowded  in  every  part  long 
before  seven  o'clock.  I  went  to  his  dressing-room,  and 
shook  him  by  the  hand  ;  he  was  apparently  calm  ;  yet 
I  saw  there  was  a  high  excitement  within.  '  Don't 
speak  to  me,  Henderson,'  he  said  ;  <  and  I  shall  be  all 
right.'  I  left  him  without  another  word.  Ten 
minutes  afterwards,  the  curtain  drew  up.  I  played 
Mercutio  ;  and  I  believe  I  was  the  more  nervous  of 
the  two. 

"  His  entrance,  as  he  crossed  the  stage  at  the  back, 
was  the  signal  for  universal  applause  ;  but  when,  re-en 
tering  at  the  first  wing,  he  appeared,  with  the  foot- 


COKALIE   WALTON.  147 

lights  full  upon  him,  lighting  up  his  face,  and  dis 
playing  the  perfection  of  his  faultless  figure  and  ele 
gant  costume,  the  applause  rose  into  deafening  cheers, 
which  lasted  several  minutes.  I  did  not  wonder  at 
it :  for  I  assure  you — no  disparagement  to  present 
company,  sir  " — (said  the  manager,  smiling),  "  I  never 
saw  such  a  Eomeo  to  look  at !  There  he  stood,  with 
out  a  touch  of  rouge,  or  the  least  aid  from  art,  Romeo 
himself,  perfect  in  youthful  grace  and  beauty.  Then, 
when  you  think  how  she  must  have  looked  as  Juliet ! 
I  do  believe  the  stage  never  before  saw,  together,  such 
a  pair  as  that  night  played  in  my  little  theatre ! 

"  He  acted  remarkably  well ;  there  was  very  little 
of  the  novice  in  his  manner,  and  that  little  only  made 
his  acting  appear  the  more  natural  and  less  stage-y  ; 
for,  after  all,  sir,  you  know  we  do  a  great  many  things 
on  the  stage  that  nobody  ever  dreamt  of  doing  any 
where  else,  Mr.  Vandenhoff." 

"I  admit  it;  but  we'll  reform  that  one  day,"  I  re 
plied. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  their  love-scenes  went  ad 
mirably.  He  was  all  fire,  all  fervor,  all  passion  ;  and 
she,  though  she  played  Juliet  with  less  abandon,  as  it 
is  the  fashion  to  call  it,  than  he  displayed,  yet  she 
acted  with  great  truth  and  feeling.  She  had  not  then 
begun  to  shrink  from  her  stage-lovers,  as  she  does 
now  :  that  feeling  has  arisen  since.  They  were  called 
for,  three  times  during  the  play  ;  and,  at  the  close, 
bouquets  were  showered  upon  the  stage,  which  he 
picked  up  and  handed  to  her,  bowing  respectfully, 
and  showing,  before  the  curtain,  by  the  attention  and 
empressement  of  his  manner,  the  high  consideration  in 


148  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

which  he  wished  her  to  be  held.  Having  brought  her 
off  the  stage,  he  bowed  to  her,  and  wished  her  good 
night  ;  that,  I  believe,  was  all  that  passed  between  them 
during  the  evening,  apart  from  the  business  of  the  play. 

"  I  could  not  help  asking  her  :  <  Well,  Miss  Wal 
ton,  how  do  you  like  your  Koineo  ? '  i  He  is  a  gen 
tleman,7  was  her  brief  and  comprehensive  reply,  as 
she  walked  hastily  away. 

"  We  repeated  i  Romeo  and  Juliet '  three  alter 
nate  nights.  The  next  week  they  appeared  together 
in  the  i  Lady  of  Lyons,'  which  was  a  still  greater  suc 
cess.  It  took  us  through  two  weeks,  three  nights 
each ;  and  the  week  after,  he  played  Jaffier  to  her 
Belvidera.  The  romantic  motive  of  his  coming  on  to 
the  stage,  had  got  wind  in  the  town,  and  the  popular  ex 
citement  knew  no  bounds ;  the  houses  were  crowded  ; 
and,  as  Miss  Walton's  great  propriety  of  behavior  was 
generally  known,  every  .one  seemed  interested  in  the 
young  and  handsome  couple." 

"  And  how,"  I  asked,  "  did  his  suit  thrive  with 
her?" 

"  O,"  said  the  manager,  "  he  had  evidently  gained 
ground.  They  shook  hands  now  when  they  met,  talked 
together  pleasantly,  and  she  had  allowed  him  once  to 
see  her  to  her  lodgings,  wishing  him  good-night  at 
the  door :  but  he  had  never  yet  crossed  her  threshold. 
One  night,  Miss  Walton  had  passed  out  of  the 
stage-door  to  go  home,  after  the  play,  attended  only 
by  the  faithful  Biddy,  when  a  gentleman  accosted  her, 
evidently  with  the  intention  of  intruding  his  company 
upon  her.  Biddy's  quick  eye  at  once  detected  in  the 
stranger  her  former  persecutor  of  L ;  and  opened 


COBALIE   WALTON.  149 

on  him  with  a  storm  of  feminine  invective,  heightened 
by  a  strong  Tipperary  brogue.  The  intruder  was, 
however,  obstinate  ;  he  even  attempted  to  take  Miss 
"Walton's  hand  :  she  turned  and  fled  back  towards  the 
stage-door,  pursued  by  her  persecutor.  Just  as  she 
had  reached  it,  it  was  opened  from  the  inside,  and  out 
walked  Lionel  Ransom :  a  glance  told  him  the  state 
of  affairs.  '  O,  Mr.  Ransom  ! '  she  exclaimed,  '  you 
will  protect  me ! '  ( With  my  life  ! '  he  replied ;  and 
I  suppose  it  was  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life. 
<  Allow  me,  Miss  Walton,  to  accompany  you  home  ; 
may  I  offer  you  my  arm  ? '  She  placed  her  arm  in 
his,  and  they  were  walking  away,  when  the  other — 
YERNON,  we  will  call  him — exclaimed  in  a  loud,  angry 
voice,  and  in  his  usual  style  of  interrogation, — ;  "Who 
the are  you^  sir  ? '  Ransom  paused  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  said  very  quietly, — l  In  ten  minutes  I  shall 
be  happy  to  answer  your  question  ;  at  present,  I  am 
otherwise  engaged.'  '  You'll  find  me  at  the  Queen's 
Arms  Hotel,'  said  the  other.  c  I  will  find  you  there,' 
was  Ransom's  ieply.  He  conducted  Miss  Walton 
home  ;  this  time  she  invited  him  to  come  in ;  with 
a  view,  I  suppose,  of  preventing  an  encounter  be 
tween  himself  and  Yernon :  but  he  declined  the  long- 
desired  privilege,  said  he  would  have  the  honor  of 
calling  in  the  morning,  wished  her  good-night,  and 
hastened  to  the  Queen's  Arms. 

Biddy  had  not  failed  to  inform  him  of  the  stranger's 
name ;  so  he  enquired  at  once,  on  entering,  for  Mr. 
Yernon.  '  Who  shall  I  say  wants  him  ? '  asked  the 
waiter.  '  There  is  my  card,'  said  Ransom  ; '  l  give  it 
to  him ; '  and  he  slowly  followed  the  waiter  into  the 


150  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

coffee-room.  There,  Vernon  was  seated  moodily,  at 
a  table,  alone,  with,  a  glass  of  brandy  before  him ;  there 
were  several  persons  at  the  other  tables  in  the  room. 
He  had  just  got  the  card  when  Ransom  entered.  He 
walked  quietly  up  to  the  table  where  Yernon  wTas 
seated,  bowed  to  him  politely,  and  said, — '  Mr.  Yer 
non,  you  wished  to  know  who  I  am ;  I  have  now 
called  to  tell  you.'  '  0,'  said  Yernon,  brutally,  toss 
ing  the  card  into  the  fire ;  f  I  know  d d  well  who 

you  are,  now ;  you  are  the  fellow  that  acted  Jaffier  to 
night  ;  I  saw  you  strutting  and  swaggering  in  your 
stage-clothes ;  but  it  won't  do  here,  I  can  tell  you.' 
'  Nor  will  your  insolent  bullying  pass  here  either,'  re 
plied  Hansom,  calmly ;  '  I  am  the  son  of  a  British 
officer,  and  I  insist  on  your  apologizing  this  moment 
for  the  insult  you  have  just  offered  me.'  i  Pshaw ! ' 
said  Yernon  ;  '  do  you  know  who  you're  talking  to  ? 
do  you  think  I'll  degrade  myself  by  apologizing  to  a 
pitiful  play-actor  ? '  '  I  think,'  said  Ransom,  very  de 
liberately,  'that  he  who  insults  a  woman  is  usually  a 
coward  when  he  encounters  a  man.' 

Yernon  answered  not  a  word,  but  sprang  up,  seized 
the  riding-whip  at  his  side,  (he  had  ridden  in  from 

L ,  which  was  only  twenty  miles  distant),  and 

aimed  a  cut  at  Ransom's  face.  Ransom,  quick  as  light 
ning,  parried  the  cut,  and  the  next  instant  a  blow  with 
the  full  force  of  his  arm,  sent  Yernon  reeling  to  the 
floor ;  the  whip  flew  from  his  hand  ;  Ransom  seized  it, 
grasped  the  other  by  the  collar,  and,  in  spite  of  his  strug 
gles,  inflicted  on  him  a  chastisement  that  left  severe 
marks  on  his  face,  and  which  it  was  likely  he  would  re 
member  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  whole  affair  was 


CORALIE    WALTON.  151 

so  sudden,  that  the  spectators  had  scarcely  time  to  in 
terfere,  had  they  been  disposed  to  do  so  ;  and  landlord 
and  waiters  came  rushing  in,  just  as  Ransom,  having 
inflicted  the  last  finishing  cut,  flung  Yernon  violently 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  exclaiming, — <  Now, 
sir,  you  know  who  I  am  ;  and  if  you  desire  any  fur 
ther  knowledge  of  me,  you  can  have  it,  when  and 
where  you  please.'  "With  that,  he  strode  out  of  the 
room.  Yernon,  humiliated  and  disgraced,  ordered 
his  horse  ten  minutes  after,  gallopped  off  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  and  has  never  made  his  appearance 
here  since." 

"Well,  now,"  I  interposed,  "surely  Ransom's 
course  was  clear.  Miss  Walton  could  not  be  insen 
sible  to  such  ardent  devotion." 

"  She  was  not"  said  the  manager.  "  Of  course, 
the  affair  was  related  with  embellishments  in  the  pa 
pers;  some  ill-natured  comments  were  made;  but 
sympathy  was  entirely  in  favor  of  the  lovers — for 
lovers  they  now  evidently  were ;  in  fact,  the  general 
belief  was  that  they  were  engaged,  and  would  shortly 
be  married." 

"  And  did  it  happen  so  ? "  I  asked. 

"  No ! — One  day,  about  three  months  ago,  Ran 
som  went  suddenly  up  to  London ;  I  happened 
to  see  him  on  his  way  to  the  station ;  he  shook  hands 
with  me,  said  he  should  be  back  in  a  day  or  two ; 
started  by  the  next  train,  and  I  never  saw  him 
again." 

"  Dead  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  No ;  sailed  for  America  a  week  after  :  he  wrote 
me  a  hurried  note  from  Liverpool;  said  he  could  ex- 


152  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

plain  nothing ;  lie  was  a  wretched  man ;  almost  out 
of  his  senses ;  begged  me  to  accept  his  stage  ward 
robe,  as  he  should  never  use  it  again,  and  said  fare 
well  for  ever.  I  wrote  to  him  at  Liverpool,  and  as 
he  had  obstinately  refused  all  remuneration  for  the 
nights  he  had  played,  I  enclosed  a  post-office  order 
for  fifty  pounds,  which  I  requested  him  to  accept  as 
some  compensation  for  the  services  he  had  done  me  ; 
for  he  had  drawn  several  good  houses.  I  heard  from 
him  no  more." 

"  Good  heavens  !  and  Miss  Walton — ?  " 

"Was  obstinately  silent:  all  I  could  get  her  to 
admit,  was  that  she  had  had  a  letter  from  him,  and 
written  to  him  in  reply  ;  she  added  that  he  would 
never  return  !  After  struggling  with  her  feelings  for 
a  night  or  two,  she  fell  sick ;  had  an  attack  of  brain 
fever ;  my  wife  attended  her  night  and  day ;  all  her 
ravings  were  of  i  Lionel  !  cruel,  faithless,  Lionel ! ' 
but  nothing  definite  could  be  gathered  from  her  dis 
jointed  exclamations.  Her  illness  lasted  over  six 
weeks :  I  allowed  her  two  more  weeks  to  get  strong 
again,  and  paid  her  salary  all  the  time.  Poor  girl ! 
it  was  needed  for  medicine  and  little  luxuries.  I  got 
on  as  well  as  I  could  in  her  absence,  with  the  aid  of  a 
pantomime  which  I  produced  ;  and  last  Monday  was 
the  first  night  she  has  played  since  she  acted  Belvi- 
dera  writh  Lionel  Hansom.  And  now  I  have  told  you 
all  about  it." 

"  And  this,"  said  I,  "  explains  her  aversion  to 
love-scenes,  and  the  peculiar  shuddering  she  exhibits 
at  the  approach  of  a  stage-lover." 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  manager  ;  "  but  she'll  get  over 


CORALIE   WALTON.  153 

it  by  degrees.  The  stage  don't  allow  people  to  in 
dulge  their  private  feelings  too  much  ;  there's  no  time 
for  it ;  and  it's  a  good  thing,  too,  that  it  helps  to  dis 
tract  one  from  brooding  on  sorrow." 

"  That's  true,  Mr.  Henderson  ;  there's  compensa 
tion  in  all  things." 

"  "Well,  sir,"  said  he ;  "  it's  late,  and  I'll  wish  you 
good-night ;  and  don't  let  Miss  Walton's  troubles 
spoil  your  night's  rest :  she'll  be  all  right  in  Ophelia 
to-morrow,  depend  upon  it." 

"  I  hope  so,  for  her  own  sake,  poor  girl ! "  I  re 
plied  ;  "  good-night !  " 


154  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


X. 

COKALIE    WALTON. 
CHAPTER  III.— MADNESS. 

"  There's  rosemary ;  that's  for  remembrance !  Pray  love,  remember ! " 
"  And  will  lie  not  come  again  ?  "  Hamlet. 

THE  next  morning  ushered  in  a  beautiful  balmy  sum 
mer's  day,  and  before  rehearsal  I  strolled  down  to  the 
meadows  by  the  river's  bank,  that  were  clothed  in  a 
bright  emerald  green,  through  which  the  winding 
river  glided  like  a  silver  snake.  There  were  light 
boats  dancing  and  skimming  over  it ;  merry  boys  were 
laughing  and  frolicking  in  them ;  some  were  diving 
into  the  clear  water,  and  ever  and  anon  at  a  shady 
nook  you  would  come  upon  a  stalwart  figure  in  cords 
and  hip-boots,  up  to  the  knees  in  water,  rod  in  hand, 
whipping  the  stream  for  salmon-trout.  I  strolled 
leisurely  along,  glancing  at  the  water  as  it  sparkled 
beneath  the  morning  beam,  and  thinking  of  that  wide 
space  of  water  1  was  soon  to  traverse,  and  of  the  new 
world  on  whose  theatre  I  was  to  appear.  At  an 
angle,  where  the  river  turned  rather  sharply,  in  a  lit 
tle  retired  nook,  wrapped  up  in  shawls,  and  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  the  faithful  Biddy,  stood  Miss  Walton, 


CORALIE   WALTON.  155 

her  eyes  fixed  on  the  passing  river,  and  her  thoughts, 
too,  probably,  across  the  sea. 

She  started  at  my  footstep  and  her  pale  face 
slightly  flushed  at  the  surprise,  as  I  raised  my  hat 
and  advanced  to  her.  She  received  me  without  effort 
or  affectation ;  and  I  was  delighted  to  find  that  she 
spoke  quite  composedly,  and  professed  herself  able 
and  willing  to  play  Ophelia  that  night.  Still,  I 
doubted  and  trembled  for  her,  when  I  heard  the 
frequent,  half-subdued,  hacking  cough,  which  inter 
rupted  her  speech  too  often.  As  we  walked  together, 
Biddy  fell  behind ;  and  I  offered  Miss  Walton  my 
arm.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  she  accepted  it  at 
once.  After  a  pause,  she  looked  up  into  my  face,  and 
said,  "  I  think  you  have  a  kindly  disposition." 

"  I  should  be  happy,"  I  answered,  "  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  proving  that  I  merit  the  compliment." 

"  I  thank  you,"  she  said ;  then,  after  a  pause — 
"  This  is  your  last  night  here." 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  going  to — to  America,"  she  added, 
falteringly. 

"Yes." 

"  Soon  ? " 

"  In  three  weeks." 

"  Indeed !  Perhaps  you  would  oblige  me  by 
being  the  bearer  of  a  packet  for  me? " 

"  For  you  ?     Willingly." 

"  Thank  you.  It  is  not  quite  ready  yet,  but — 
when  do  you  leave  this  place  ? " 

"  To-morrow ;  but  I  am  to  play  three  nights  at 
(the  other  town  under  Mr.  Henderson's  man- 


156  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

agement),  and  you  will,  perhaps,  accompany  us ;  at 
all  events,  I  shall  be  in  the  neighborhood  for  nearly 
a  week." 

"  Yery  well ;  then  I'll  get  the  packet  ready  this 
afternoon." 

She  was  silent  for  some  time  ;  and  I  did  not  inter 
rupt  the  current  of  her  thoughts  by  a  word,  till  we 
drew  near  the  theatre ;  then  I  ventured  to  say  to  her, 

"  Miss  Walton,  I  dare  say  you  have  played  Ophelia 
before?" 

"  Three  times,"  she  answered. 

"Then,"  I  said,  "  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  your 
self  to  attend  the  rehearsal,  on  my  account.  I  will 
make  your  excuses  to  Mr.  Henderson,  and  we  shall 
get  on  very  well  at  night,  I'm  sure." 

She  replied  :  "  You  are  truly  kind ;  it  will  be  a 
great  relief  to  me  to  be  excused  from  rehearsal ;  I 
shall  be  the  better  for  it,  at  night.  Thank  you  very 
much." 

She  shook  my  hand  quite  warmly,  and  we  parted. 
Of  course,  I  duly  excused  her  absence  from  rehearsal, 
which  was  to  give  additional  assurance  of  her  being 
equal  to  the  labor  of  the  night. 

ISTight  came,  and  Miss  Walton  made  her  appear 
ance  in  Ophelia,  a  perfect  impersonation  of  that  sweet 
creation  of  Shakspere — involved  in  a  destiny  too 
harsh  for  her  gentle  spirit,  her  heart  entangled  in  a 
love  for  one  "  out  of  her  sphere,"  BX^A.  forsaken  by  him, 
on  the  motive  of  some  terrible  duty  which  she  cannot 
comprehend. 

There  was  a  very  large  audience  ;  the  theatre  was 
so  crowded,  that  seats  were  placed  in  the  orchestra, 


CORALIE   WALTON.  157 

from  which  the  musicians  were  excluded.  All  went 
on  admirably,  till  Hamlet's  violent,  and  mocking  scene 
with  Ophelia,  in  the  third  act,  commencing, 

"  Nymph !  in  thy  orisons  be  all  my  sins  remembered  ! " 

The  moment  I  took  her  hand,  saying,  in  the  words  of 
the  text, 

"  I  did  love  you  once," 

I  observed  her  mouth  quiver  with  a  spasmodic  con 
traction  ;  and  the  tone  in  which  she  answered, 

{;  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  s0," 

was  mournfully  touching.  But  when,  continuing  the 
dialogue,  I  went  on — 

"  You  should  not  have  believed  me ;  for  virtue  cannot  so  in- 
noculate  our  old  stock,  lut  we  shall  relish  of  it :  Iloved  you  not,1  "— 

"When  I  uttered  these  words,  she  started  from  me 
as  if  she  had  trodden  upon  an  adder,  and  her  face 
expressed  pain,  anguish,  terror,  and  so  she  continued 
to  tremble  and  to  shrink  and  to  shudder,  till  my  part 
ing  words  to  her,  which  I  gave  in  a  mingled  tone  of 
subdued  love,  compassion,  and  yet  of  irrevocable 
doom, — 

"  To  a  nunnery  !  go,  go,  go  !  " 

Then  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  which  seemed 
to  shake  her  very  frame,  for,  at  least,  two  minutes. 
It  was  the  perfection  of  acting — if  it  was  acting — and 
as  I  stood  at  the  wing  watching  her,  during  the  ap 
plause  which  followed  my  exit,  and  which  was  taken 


158  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

up  again  on  her  passionate  emotion,  I  thought  I  had 
never  before  known  how  deep  Ophelia's  love  for 
Hamlet  was,  nor  ever  seen  it  so  touchingly  represented. 
Her  closing  speech,  ending  with, 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  seeing  what  I  have  seen,  to  see  what  I  see  !  " 
was  the  disjointed  music  of  a  breaking  heart — 
"  like  sweet  bells  jangled  out  of  tune  and  harsh." 

I  was  obliged  to  clear  my  eyes  from  a  thick  mist, 
before  I  could  go  on  again,  for  my  "  Instructions  to 
the  Players." 

In  the  play  scene  which  followed,  she  had  little  to 
do  ;  but  I  could  not  help  remarking,  as  I  lay  at  her 
footstool,  that  there  was  a  wild  wandering  of  her  eye, 
and  a  hysteric  catch  in  her  speech,  most  painful  and 
alarming  to  notice.  "With  that  ended  my  "  business  " 
with  her  on  the  stage  for  the  evening. 

During  the  fourth  act,  according  to  my  custom, 
after  the  severe  and  continued  exertions  of  the  three 
preceding  acts  of  Hamlet,  I  remained  quietly  in 
my  dressing-room.  The  principal  features  of  the 
fourth  act  are  Ophelia's  madness,  and  the  return  of 
her  brother  Laertes,  from  across  the  sea  /  in  this, 
Hamlet  is  not  engaged.  I  was  half-dozing  in  my 
dressing-room,  when  my  attention  was  suddenly 
aroused  by  the  most  piercing  cries,  and  hysterical 
shrieks  ;  I  opened  my  door,  and  listened ;  it  was  evi 
dently  the  voice  of  Miss  "Walton.  I  rushed  down 
stairs ;  they  were  carrying  her,  shrieking,  and  tossing 
her  arms  wildly,  to  the  Green-Boom.  Poor  girl !  the 


CORALIE   WALTON.  159 

mimic  madness  of  Ophelia  had  been  fatal  to  her  ;  it 
had  become  a  fearful  reality  I  The  circumstances  of 
Ophelia's  story,  Hamlet's  abandonment,  and  her 
despair,  she  had  made  her  own ;  they  had,  in  the 
earnestness  of  her  acting,  by  a  mysterious  operation  of 
the  brain,  been  wrought  up  into  a  confused  union 
with  her  own  identity ;  and  though  she  repeated  the 
text  of  her  part  correctly,  and  sang  the  touching 
snatches  of  song  that  rise  up  in  Ophelia's  love-lorn 
memory,  she  had  lost  all  distinction  between  herself 
and  the  character  she  was  playing.  It  was  no  longer 
Ophelia,  it  was. she  herself  who  was  forsaken;  whose 
lover  had  fled  beyond  the  sea;  whose  hopes  were 
buried  in  the  grave ;  whose  heart  was  blighted ;  whose 
brain  was  maddened,  and  to  whom  nothing  was  left 
but  to  despair  and  die !  Thus  she  rushed  shrieking 
from  the  stage,  and  was  borne  home,  a  hopeless  lunatic ; 
henceforth, 

"  The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  !  " 

Imagine  with  what  feelings  I  went  through  the 
fifth  act,  and  what  a  relief  it  was  to  see  the  curtain 
fall! 

As  I  was  sadly  leaving  the  theatre,  the  faithful 
Biddy  encountered  me,  with  streaming  eyes,  holding 
a  small  packet  in  her  hands. 

"  Shure,  your  honor,"  said  she,  sobbing  at  every 
word,  "  here's  a  parcel  the  darlint's  after  layving  on 
her  dressin'  table  this  night :  she  tould  me  if  anythin' 
happened  her  this  night,  to  deliver  it  to  your  honor, 
sir ;  and  the  divel  a  bit  o'  me  would  trust  it  out  o'  my 
hands  till  yourself  got  it.  O  murther!  murther! 


160  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

wliat'll  we  do  to  save  the  cratur !  O,  bad  luck  to 
these  theayters!  they'll  be  the  death  of  her,  they 
will ! " 

I  took  the  packet;  said  all  I  could  to  console 
poor  Biddy,  but  in  vain  ;  she  left  me  sobbing  almost 
hysterically,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  and  wringing 
her  hands,  as  she  hastened  home. 

The  first  thing  I  did  on  arriving  at  the  hotel  was 
to  open  the  packet.  I  found  that  the  outside  wrapper 
enclosed  another,  tied  with  white  ribbon,  and  sealed 
with  a  seal  on  which  was  simply — COKALIE. 

That  second  wrapper  was  addressed  to  "LIONEL 
RANSOM,  United  States  of  America" 

Between  the  two,  was  a  note  for  me;  I  opened  it. 
Written  in  a  very  pretty,  ladylike,  but  unsteady  hand, 
I  read, — 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  good  heart :  I  trust  to  your  honor,  to 
deliver  these  to  Mm,  if  you  should  ever  meet  him  in  America.  I 
feel  that  after  to-night,  neither  you  and  I,  nor  he  and  I,  shall 
ever  meet  more  in  this  world. 

Tell  him,  I  forgive  him  and  bless  him,  and  shall  do  so  with 
my  last  sigh.  Farewell !  My  brain  burns  !  C.  W." 

I  placed  the  package  in  my  writing  case  ;  and 
went  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart. 

The  next  morning  I  learnt  that  she  had  raved  all 
night  long,  occasionally  singing  snatches  of  Ophelia's 
songs,  and  often,  again,  lying  silent  or  muttering  con 
fused  sounds,  in  which  could  be  distinguished  some 
times,  "  O  Mother  !  mother  !  " 

That  afternoon  we  left  for  ,  the  other  town 

under  Mr.  Henderson's  theatrical  purveyance;  and 
all  the  company, — except  Coralie !  I  played  my 


CORALIE   WALTON.  161 

three  nights  listlessly,  and  with  a  sad,  dead  weight 
upon  my  spirits.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day, 
Thursday,  the  manager  came  to  me,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  said  in  an  agitated  voice  : — 

"  It's  all  over.     Poor  girl !  " 

"  Good  God !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  she's  not  dead  ?  " 

"  Head  that,"  he  said,  handing  me  a  letter  blotted 
with  tears  ;  "  it's  from  my  wife  ;  she  was  not  wanted 
in  the  play  last  night,  so  I  let  her  go  back  to  see  if 
she  could  do  any  thing  for  that  poor  girl.  Bead  it, 
read  it ;  it  concerns  you." 

I  read  these  words  : — 

"  Poor  Coralie  Walton  died  at  midnight,  utterly  exhausted, 
but  quite  calm.  The  last  words  she  uttered,  slowly  but  distinctly, 
were — Tell  Hamlet  not  to  forget." 


162  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


XL 

COKALIE   WALTON. 


CHAPTER  IV.— DESPAIE. 

One  whose  hand, 

Like  the  base  Judean,  threw  a  pearl  away 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe ! 

Othello. 

THREE  weeks  after,  in  August,  1842, 1  stepped  on 
board  the  good  ship  "  Garrick "  for  New  York. 
Coralie's  package,  of  course,  went  with  me,  religiously 
concealed  in  a  secret  drawer  of  my  writing-desk. 
One  of  my  first  thoughts  on  arriving  in  New  York, 
was  to  examine  the  play-bills  of  every  theatre,  for  the 
name  of  Lionel  Eansom  ;  but  none  such  appeared.  I 
next  employed  a  theatrical  agent  to  forward  me  bills 
of  every  large  Theatre  in  the  Union,  but  in  vain; 
none  of  them  contained  the  name  I  searched  for  ;  nor 
were  any  of  my  personal  inquiries  more  successful. 
I  carried  the  little  package  with  me  wherever  I  went, 
tu  Philadelphia,  Boston,  Charleston,  Baltimore,  New 


COKALIE    WALTON.  163 

Orleans,  but  in  vain ;  lie  for  whom  it  was  destined 
was  nowhere  known  in  theatrical  circles.  He  might 
have  changed  his  name ;  but  I  met  no  one  who  an 
swered  his  description. 

In  the  early  part  of  1847, 1  was  in  St.  Louis  ;  and 
waiting  in.  the  office  of  the  hotel,  a  few  minutes  before 
dinner,  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  aloud, — 

"  Helho !  Lionel,  where  have  you  been  ?  we've 
been  looking  for  you,  every  where." 

The  name,  Lionel,  caught  my  ear  instantly.  I 
looked  at  the  new-comer,  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
and  felt  assured,  at  one  glance,  that  I  had  found  my 
man.  "  To  make  assurance  double  sure,"  I  examined 
the  register,  and  there  I  found,  under  a  date  two  days 
back,  the  name  Lionel  Hansom,  U.  S.  Army. 

The  dinner-bell  sounded,  and  I  followed  the  party 
with  which  he  was,  and  took  my  place  opposite  to 
them  at  table.  I  examined  him  with  interest,  but 
with  caution,  for  fear  of  attracting  his  observation. 
Yes  ;  'twas  he.  There  was  the  olive  complexion,  but 
pale,  very  pale  ;  the  thick,  clustering,  black  hair,  the 
dark  lustrous  eye,  the  elegant  form  that  Henderson 
had  described.  Yes,  my  search  was  over ;  there 
sat  Coralie  Walton's  Lionel,  the  lover  who  had  aban 
doned  her,  and  to  whom  I  bore  those  sad  remem 
brances,  and  her  parting  forgiveness. 

How  should  I  accost  him  \  His  companions 
seemed  to  look  up  to  him,  and  treated  him  with  more 
than  ordinary  consideration ;  he  was  polite  and  affa 
ble  to  them,  but  spoke  little,  and  that,  with  a  serious, 
grave,  and  earnest  air.  I  did  not  observe  him  smile 
once.  The  wine  that  was  poured  out  for  him,  he  put 


164  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

to  his  lips  only,  but  did  not  drink.  Dinner  over,  I 
heard  him  tell  his  friends,  in  answer  to  some  invita 
tion  of  theirs,  that  he  was  going  to  his  room  to  write 
letters.  I  saw  him  go  up  stairs  ;  and  a  few  minutes 
afterwards,  I  sent  my  card  up  to  him,  with  a  request 
to  see  him  in  private.  The  waiter  returned,  and 
showed  me  to  his  room.  On  my  way  thither,  I  stop 
ped  in  my  own  room,  took  the  package  from  its  hid 
ing-place,  and  put  it  in  my  breast-pocket. 

He  bowed  on  my  entrance,  and  pointed  to  a 
chair.  "Mr.  Ransom,"  I  said,  seating  myself,  "I 
have  desired  to  meet  you  for  some  years ;  have 
searched  for  you  in  vain  ;  and  have  carried  about 
with  me  a  sacred  deposit  which  I  have  never  till  now 
had  an  opportunity  of  placing  in  your  hands." 

"  In  mine  ?  "  he  asked  ;  "  are  you  not  mistaken  in 
the  person  ?  Your  name  is  of  course  familiar  to  me, 
though  I  never  enter  a  theatre ; "  (and  a  dark  shade 
passed  over  his  face)  "  but  I  am  at  a  loss  to  con 
ceive —  " 

"  This  will  explain ;  "  I  said,  placing  in  his  hand 
the  package  which  I  had  drawn  from  my  breast. 

"  This  ?  "  said  he,  taking  it  with  an  air  of  indif 
ference  ;  but  the  moment  his  eye  rested  on  the  seal, 
he  exclaimed  with  a  half-cry,  as  if  a  dart  had  pierced 
him—" 

"  Good  God !     Coralie !  " 

I  thought  he  would  have  fainted.  He  recovered 
himself  however ;  again  looked  at  the  package ;  kissed 
the  seal  passionately  several  times,  then  bent  forward 
to  the  table,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept. 
I  sat  by,  in  silence. 


COBALIE   WALTON.  165 

When  he  raised  his  head,  his  face  had  undergone 
a  great  change ;  his  look  was  haggard,  wild,  almost 
savage  ;  such  a  look  as  Romeo  might  have  worn  just 
before  he  drank  the  fatal  draught,  at  Juliet's  tomb. 

"  Why  do  you  come  hither  to  raise  the  dead  ? " 
he  asked,  almost  fiercely. 

"  In  obedience  to  the  command  of  the  dead,"  I 
answered. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  That  package,"  I  replied,  "  was  placed  in  my 
hands  in  August,  1842  "— 

"  The  very  month  she  died  in,"    he  exclaimed. 

"You  know  it,  then? — With  an  injunction  to 
deliver  it  to  you,  should  I  ever  meet  you  in  this 
country.  I  have  now  fulfilled  her  dying  request. 
She  bade  me,  further,  to  say  to  you,  that  she  for 
gave  and  blessed  you  with  her  last  sigh  !  " 

During  this,  he  gazed  on  me  like  one  spell-bound ; 
or  like  a  man  whose  eyes  are  fixed  on  a  spectre  whose 
reality  he  doubts,  yet  dreads.  I  paused  ;  but  his  gaze 
remained  fixed  upon  me,  steadfast,  unchanging. 

"  Having  fulfilled  the  duty  imposed  on  me,  I  will 
now  intrude  no  longer." 

"  No,  no ;  pray  remain  ;  "  he  said,  raising  himself 
from  his  abstraction  ;  "  I — I  thank  you — I  may  have 
more  to  say  to  you  presently." 

He  then,  with  trembling  hands,  proceeded  to  open 
the  package.  From  it  fell  a  withered  rose,  whose 
leaves,  as  it  dropped,  were  scattered  like  dust  on  the 
table.  He  gazed  at  them  for  a  moment,  then — 

"  The  first  little  token  she  ever  received  from  me ! 
— withered,  withered,  withered  !  " 


166  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Then  appeared  a  watch,  with  a  hair  guard-chain. 

"  My  watch,"  he  said,  "  which  I  left  on  her  table, 
when  I  went  to  London,  to  see  her  no  more  ;  and  this 
chain  was  of  her  hair ! " — He  kissed  it,  and  again 
wept. 

Then  fell  out  a  ring — an  opal  set  in  diamonds. 

"This,"  he  said,  "is  the  only  present  she  would 
ever  receive  from  me,  as  a  pledge  of  that  other  plainer 
ring  which  she  never  wore  !  O,  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  I 
shall  go  mad ! "  and  he  started  up,  and  tore  his  hair, 
and  gnashed  his  teeth ! 

"  Fray  calm  yourself,"  I  said,  endeavoring  to 
soothe  him :  "  it  must  be  some  comfort  to  you,  that 
her  last  remembrance  was  of  you." 

"  Calm !  comfort !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  There  is 
none  for  me  but  in  death — an  honorable  death,  which 
I  am  now  seeking,  and  shall  surely  find  !  Am  I  not 
the  greatest  wretch  that  ever  breathed  ?  Was  ever  a 
villain  black  as  me  ?  Have  I  not 4  killed  the  sweet 
est  innocent  that  e'er  did  lift  up  eye  ? ' '  (He  quoted 
unconsciously :  Shakspere  supplying,  (as  he  never 
fails  to  do  those  who  love  him,)  the  very  fittest  lan 
guage  for  his  impassioned  thoughts.) 

"Listen,  sir,"  he  said;  "you  are  a  man;  you 
have  a  man's  heart,  or  she  would  not  have  trusted  you 
with  these,"  (pointing  to  the  scattered  contents  of  the 
package.)  "  To  you  I  will  reveal  what  I  have  never 
yet  confided  to  human  being,  though  the  secret  has 
racked  and  torn  my  bosom  like  an  imprisoned  wolf, 
struggling  to  gnaw  its  passage  through  my  heart.  It 
will  be  a  relief  to  me  to  set  it  free :  it  will  be  a  jus 
tice  to  her  memory  to  let  you  know  that  it  was  by  no 


CORALIE    WALTON.  167 

fault  of  hers  that  she  did  not  bear  my  worthless  name. 
It  may  be  some  palliation  of  my  cowardly  abandon 
ment  of  her,  in  your  eyes,  to  hear  what  was  the  dread 
ful  secret  that  maddened  me,  blinded  me,  drove  me 
an  exile  from  my  country  and  my  love  !  Will  you 
hear  me  ? " 

"  With  the  most  fixed  attention,"  I  answered. 

"  Let  me  first  tell  you  that,  from  the  moment  the 
terrible  blow  struck  me  in  London,  that  stunned  my 
sense,  and  set  my  heart  on  fire,  to  the  time  that  I 
found  myself  on  board  a  ship,  cleaving  the  Atlantic 
waves,  I  never  had  one  instant's  power  of  cairn 
thought — one  cessation  of  the  dreadful  rushing  and 
roaring  of  the  tide  of  blood  that  seemed  to  flow  upon 
my  brain — one  lull  of  the  surging  billows  of  frenzy 
that  seemed  bearing  me  to  destruction — one  brief  re 
spite  from  the  mocking  fiend  that  goaded  me  to  flight. 
When  on  board  ship,  I  woke  one  morning  from  a 
feverish  sleep  to  the  full  consciousness  of  all  I  had 
suffered,  and  all  I  had  lost,  no  one  can  paint,  no  one 
can  imagine  my  agony.  I  tore  my  hair,  I  beat  my 
head,  I  rent  my  flesh  with  my  teeth,  in  impotent  rage 
at  myself  and  my  rash  folly.  I  would  have  given  all 
the  rest  of  my  life  for  but  a  minute's  sight  of  Coralie, 
that  I  might  have  flung  myself  at  her  knees  and  be 
sought  her  pardon.  But  it  was  impossible  !  Here  I 
was,  within  my  floating  prison  :  the  winds  and  surging 
waters  without ;  no  escape,  no  hope  !  no  Coralie  !  In 
my  despair,  I  rushed,  half  naked,  upon  deck,  and 
would  have  thrown  myself  into  the  deep,  as  if  it  would 
bear  my  body  to  her  feet ;  but  strong  hands  seized 
me,  forced  me  down  below,  and  lashed  me  to  my  bed. 
Three  weeks'  delirium  was  the  result. 


168 

"  The  first  thing  that  I  remember,  after  that,  was 
the  words,  '  a  pilot  has  come  aboard,'  pronounced 
by  some  one  near  me.  I  turned  my  head,  and  tried 
to  speak,  but  failed  in  the  effort,  from  weakness ;  and 
the  unformed  words  died  upon  my  lips.  A  woman's 
voice  (the  stewardess,  as  I  knew  afterwards),  then 
said  :  £  You  must  keep  very  quiet ;  you  are  better 
now  ;  but  you  must  not  speak  ;  take  this,  and  try  to 
sleep.'  She  poured  something  into  my  mouth,  which 
I  swallowed  mechanically ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 
dropped  into  forgetfulness. 

"  When  we  reached  the  port  of  New  York,  the  doc 
tor  declared  I  was  too  ill  to  be  removed  immediately  ; 
and  I  remained  three  days  on  board  the  ship,  before 
they  ventured  to  lift  and  carry  me,  bed  and  all, 
ashore.  In  a  week  after  that,  I  was  able  to  sit  up. 
The  first  use  I  made  of  my  partially-recovered  strength 
was  to  write  an  agonised  letter  to  Coralie,  beseeching 
her  to  forget  the  past,  to  look  on  it  as  a  hideous 
dream,  to  forgive  me,  and,  for  God's  love,  to  come  to 
me ;  for  that  I  had  not  strength  to  go  to  her,  or  that 
she  would  have  seen  me  now,  and  not  a  letter.  I 
could  only  just  write  these  lines  very  slowly  and  un 
steadily,  enclose  a  Bank  of  England  note  to  pay  her 
passage  out,  and  direct  the  letter,  when  I  fell  back, 
exhausted.  I  did  not  recover  from  the  effects  of  the 
excitement  for  several  days.  "When  I  did,  I  found 
the  letter  had  not  been  sent.  I  despatched  it  to  the 
post-office  instantly,  for  the  first  steamer ;  and  lived 
as  patiently  as  I  could  the  dreary  interval  that  must 
expire  before  I  could  get  an  answer.  At  length  it 
came — not  from  her — the  superscription  was  in  Hen  • 


COKALIE   WALTON.  169 

derson's  hand-writing ;  and  I  knew,  at  once,  that  she 
was  dead ! 

"  Then  my  reason  reeled  again ;  and,  for  two  months, 
as  I  afterwards  learned,  I  was  the  inmate  of  a  lunatic 
asylum.  I  fell  into  good  hands.  The  captain  of  the 
ship  in  which  I  came,  had  taken  possession  of  my 
money  and  effects ;  and  they  were  put  into  the  care 
of  the  British  Consul :  so  that,  on  my  recovery,  I 
found  myself,  after  payment  of  all  the  expenses  of  my 
illness,  in  possession  of  about  £500  in  Bank  of  Eng 
land  notes.  Procuring  a  draft  for  this,  I  immediately 
set  out  for  the  West ;  and,  for  some  time,  lived  there 
the  life  of  a  hunter,  roaming  the  pathless  prairies, 
alone,  or  with  wild  and  rude  companions,  with  whom  I 
held  little  converse,  and  had  no  sympathy." 

"But,  for  God's  sake,"  I  exclaimed,  "What  could 
have  been  the  motive  of  your  abandonment  ?  " 

"  I  am  coming  to  it,"  he  replied :  "  give  me  a 
moment  to  collect  my  thoughts." — He  placed  his  hand 
on  his  forehead  for  a  few  moments,  then  resumed : 

"  As  soon  as  I  found  myself,  as  I  believed,  in  pos 
session  of  the  treasure  of  Coralie's  love,  patiently  and 
proudly  won,  I  pressed  her  to  be  my  wife.  Strangely 
enough,  she  always  evaded  my  request,  and  seemed 
even  troubled  when  I  urged  it.  At  last,  I  grew  al 
most  angry  at  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  excess  of 
affectation.  One  day  I  reproached  her  that  she  was 
trifling  with  my  love,  and  implored  her,  if  she  was 
really  sincere,  as  I  was,  to  name  the  day  when  I  might 
call  her  mine. 

"  She  looked  me  very  seriously,  even  sadly,  in  the 
face,  as  she  said:  'Are  you  sure,  Lionel,  that  you 

8 


170  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

love  me  well  enough  to  make  me  your  wife  ?'  ( It  is 
the  eager  desire  of  my  heart,'  I  exclaimed  :  c  the  pas 
sionate  wish  of  my  soul ! '  '  Let  passion  be  silent,'  she 
said,  almost  sternly,  '  while  you  ask  yourself  calmly 
and  ^passionately,  whether  you  will  give  your  name 
to  a  poor,  penniless  girl,  of  whom  you  know  no  more 
than  that  she  is  that,  and  that  she  loves  you.'  <  If  I 
know  that,  Coralie,  I  know  enough.'  i  Enough,'  she 
said, c  you  think  it  now ;  I  must  take  care  that  you  never 
think  it  too  little.  Suppose,  Lionel,'  she  continued,  after 
a  pause  of  what  seemed  painful  thought, — 'suppose 
there  were  some  circumstances  connected  with  me, 
with  my  history,  that  might  make  you.  blush  hereafter 
for  your  wife  ? '  £  What  can  you  mean,  Coralie  ? '  I 
said  ;  c  I  know  you.  to  be  pure,  virtuous,  honest,  true ; 
what  can  there  be  that  should  make  me  ever  blush  here 
after  for  you.  ? '  c  You  know  nothing  of  my  family,'  she 
said  :  c  ought  you  not  to  ask  of  it  ? '  '  Why  ? '  I  re 
plied,  f  you  have  never  mentioned  your  family,  and  I 
have  not  either,  because  I  concluded  you  were  an 
orphan,  and  the  subject  might  be  painful.'  '  I  am 
not  so,'  she  said  ;  c  and,  before  I  can  consent  to  accept 
your  hand,  you  must  see  my  mother.'  i  With  all  my 
heart,'  I  said :  c  I  will  see  her  immediately,  and  ask 
her  consent  to  our  union  : — where  shall  I  find  her  ? ' 
'  In  London,'  she  replied :  £  I  will  give  you  her  ad 
dress  before  yon  go.'  c  Give  it  me  now,  then,'  I  said, 
looking  at  my  watch ;  c  for  I  shall  go  by  the  next 
train,  and  that  starts  in  half  an  hour  '  She  sat  down 
and  wrote  on  a  card,  which  she  gave  me ;  I  put  it 
into  my  waistcoat  pocket  without  looking  at  it. 
'  There,'  I  said,  '  is  my  watch,'  laying  it  down  on  the 


CORALIE   WALTON.  171 

table  :  '  I  will  wind  it  up  before  I  go ;  and,  by  this 
hour  to-morrow,  I  hope  to  be  with  you  again,  and  to 
kiss  you  as  my  wife.'  c  God  grant  it  may  be  so,'  she 
said,  raising  her  eyes  fervently  to  heaven ;  *  but  I 
have  an  ill-divining  soul !  I  feel,  Lionel,  as  if  this 
were  our  last  parting.'  '  Pshaw,  Coralie,  you  are 
foolish,'  I  said.  'If  it  should  be  so,  Lionel — if  you 
should  see  cause  to  change  your  present  feelings — do 
me  justice  in  your  secret  heart ; — remember  you 
sought  the  love  of  the  poor,  unfriended  girl,  who 
shunned  all  notice  save  that  which  gave  her  bread ; 
and,  if  you  cast  me  off,  at  least  remember  that  it  is 
my  love  to  you  alone  that  sends  you  on  an  errand  that 
may  be  fatal  to  my  peace.'  '  You  are  so  mysterious, 
Coralie,  that  I  declare  I  can't  at  all  understand  you,' 
I  replied.  t  What  on  earth  should  make  you  talk  of  my 
desertion  of  you,  my  sweet  love?  "What  on  earth 
could  induce  me  to  do  it  ?  And  weeping,  too !  Why, 
this  is  foolish !  If  your  mother  object  to  me,  we 
must  endeavor  to  win  her  over,  dear,  that's  all ;  but, 
as  for  any  wish  of  mine  dividing  us,  nothing  but 
death,  or  dishonor,  can  ever  part  us.'  I  thought  she 
shuddered ;  and  I  said :  '  There,  there,  you're  low- 
spirited  :  now,  au  revoir  !  To-morrow,  I  shall  be  back, 
and  all  will  be  well ! '  <  God  bless  you,  Lionel,'  she 
said,  as  I  printed  a  kiss  on  her  pale  cheek  ; — '  God 
bless  you,  and  lead  you  back  to  me ! '  With  a  final 
kiss  on  her  lips,  and  a  whispered  farewell,  I  hurried 
away  to  my  lodgings,  crammed  a  few  things  into  a 
travelling-bag,  hastened  to  the  station,  and  was  just 
in  time  for  the  up-town  train. 

"  Six  hours  brought  me  to  London  :   it  was  eight 


172  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

o'clock.  I  took  a  cab  to  Charing  Cross,  snatched  a 
hasty  meal,  and,  having  finished  it,  Hooked,  for  the  first 
time,  at  the  card  which  Coralie  had  given  me,  contain 
ing  her  mother's  address.  Mrs.  WILTON,  1 4 Place, 

was  written  upon  it.  So  !  I  thought,  Coralie's  real  name 
is  Wilton,  eh  ?  She  changed  a  vowel,  only,  for  her  nom 
de  theatre.  I  dare  say,  her  mother  is  some  very  strict  old 
lady,  with  very  strong  prejudices  against  the  Theatre. 
Well,  I  must  endeavor  to  overcome  them  ;  or,  after  all, 
I  thought,  if  the  old  lady  object  on  the  score  of  my 
profession,  I  am  not  bound  to  the  stage :  it  was  my 
love  for  Coralie  that  led  me  to  it ;  the  same  love  can 
take  me  off  it  again  ;  and  we  can  be  happy  in  some 
less  uncertain  calling. 

"  With  these   thoughts,  I  sallied  cheerfully  out, 
called  a  cab  from  the  stand,  and  desired  the  driver  to 

take  me  to  14 Place.     c  Mrs.  Wilton's,  sir  ? '  he 

asked.  l  Yes,'  I  replied  :  '  Mrs.  Wilton's.'  <  All  right, 
sir,'  he  said ;  and  I  fancied  the  fellow  smiled.  Strange, 
I  thought,  that  he  should  know  the  name  when  I 
gave  him  the  number !  It  was  now  about  half-past 
nine  o'clock.  I  had  an  idea  of  deferring  my  visit  till 
the  next  day  ;  but  I  resolved  to  apologise  to  the  old 
lady  for  my  late  call,  get  it  over,  take  the  eight 
o'clock  train  back  in  the  morning,  and  be  with  Cora- 
lie  at  two  p.  m.  On  the  cab  rattled,  till  we  turned 
into  a  quiet  street  in  the  neighborhood  of  Portland 
Place,  at  the  back  of  it ;  and  the  driver  pulled  up  his 
horse  at  a  corner  house.  There  was  a  Hansom  cab 
already  at  the  door,  out  of  which,  as  I  alighted, 
jumped  two  very  over-dressed  young  women,  and  ran 
laughing  and  talking  very  loudly,  up  the  steps.  '  Is 


COKALIE   WALTON.  173 

this  Mrs.  Wilton's?'  I  asked,  as  I  paid  my  fare. 
*  Yes  sir,'  said  the  cabman,  '  this  is  the  house.  Take 
the  side-door,  sir,  it's  the  privatest ! '  and  the  fellow 
winked  at  me,  as  he  drove  away. 

"  By  this  time,  the  two  women  had  entered.  I 
walked  up  to  the  door,  and  found  on  it  ~No.  14,  in 
brass  figures,  and  underneath,  on  a  brass  plate,  Mrs. 
WILTON.  Assuredly,  it  was  the  house.  I  knocked 
and  rang.  Presently,  a  slatternly -looking  servant 
opened  the  door,  when  I  asked  if  Mrs.  Wilton  was  at 
home.  'She's  at  home,  but  she's  very  busy  just  now,' 
said  the  girl ;  '  what  lady  do  you  wish  to  see  ? '  '  Mrs. 
Wilton,'  I  replied.  '  0,  very  well ;  walk  in  ;  I'll  tell 
her,'  the  girl  answered.  I  was  shown  into  a  parlor — a 
salon,  I  should  call  it — only  half-lighted,  but  magnifi 
cently  furnished,  I  observed,  with  large  pier-glasses 
and  elegant  chandeliers.  '  Well,'  I  thought,  to  my 
self,  i  this  is  a  degree  of  splendor  I  certainly  did  not 
expect.'  Presently,  aloud  burst  of  laughter,  in  which 
men's  and  women's  voices  blended,  startled  my  ear, 
from  up  stairs,  and  which  was  continued  with  increasing 
noise,  and  a  sound  as  of  glasses  struck  together,  for  some 
minutes.  While  I  was  wondering  at  this  uproarious 
mirth,  which  I  explained  to  myself  by  supposing  there 
must  be  an  evening  party  up-stairs,  the  servant  girl 
returned,  to  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Wilton  was  engaged  at 
present;  but 'wouldn't  some  one  else  do?'  'Some 
one  else  ? '  I  said ;  '  no ;  my  call  is  to  Mrs.  Wilton, 
alone.'  'Well,  then,'  said  the  girl,  saucily,  'you'll 
have  to  wait :  for  she  has  company,  and  won't  be  at 
liberty  for  some  time.'  '  Yery  well,'  I  said,  '  I'll  re 
turn  in  half  an  hour,  if  that  will  not  be  too  late.' 


174  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

'Late!'  she  said:  'lord,  no!  nothing's  late  in  this 
house ! '  and  as  she  opened  the  door,  the  burst  of 
laughter  from  above  rang  upon  my  ears,  more  up 
roariously  than  before.  A  vague  feeling  of  fear  be 
gan  to  steal  over  me.  I  dreaded  1  knew  not 
what. 

As  I  descended  the  steps,  a  policeman  stood-  under 
the  lamp  :  probably,  I  glanced  at  him  as  I  passed : 
for  he  touched  his  hat,  and  said,  *  Good  evening,  sir ; 
pretty  merry  up  stairs  to-night.'  (He  had  heard  the 
laughter  through  the  open  window.)  c  Unusually  so, 
I  should  hope,'  I  replied.  i  O,  no  sir,  they  generally 
keep  it  up  here — pretty  fast  chaps  visit  this  house, 
sir ! '  '  Why,  in  heaven's  name,'  I  said,  {  what  house 
is  it  ? '  i  Well,  sir,  you  surely  ought  to  know,'  he  an 
swered,  '  you've  just  come  out  of  it.'  i  I  went  to  see 
Mrs.  Wilton  on  particular  business  ;  but  I  am  an  en 
tire  stranger  to  her  and  the  house.'  *  Well,'  replied 
the  policeman,  *  there's  very  few  young  men  in  town 
that  can  say  as  much  : — why,  it's  as  notorious  an 
ASSIGNATION-HOUSE  as  any  in  London  ! '  *  Good  God ! ' 
I  exclaimed,  and  fell  as  if  I  had  been  shot. 

"  £  Helho !  '  said  the  policeman,  raising  me  : 
*  what's  the  matter  ?  you're  not  well,  sir ;  take  a  drop 
o'  something  at  the  tavern,  here ;  they've  excellent 
brandy,  and  it'll  set  you  straight,  sir.'  I  understood 
the  fellow's  hint,  slipped  a  shilling  into  his  hand,  and 
bade  him  leave  me.  He  touched  his  hat,  and  walked 
away  to  the  public  house,  turning,  however,  once  or 
twice,  to  cast  a  glance  at  me. 

Gracious  heaven ! — 

I  was   paralysed,   stunned :    my  knees  knocked 


COEALIE    WALTON.  175 

together.  I  felt  sick  at  heart.  I  pulled  my  cravat 
from  my  throat,  and  sought  to  rouse  myself  by  rapid 
walking. 

"  For  what  must  have  been  about  half  an  hour, 
though  it  seemed  to  me  an  age,  I  walked  up  and  down 
Langham  Place,  into  which  I  had  turned,  utterly  un 
able  to  collect  my  thoughts,  incapable  of  fixing  them 
on  any  point,  only  overpowered  by  a  dull,  leaden 
consciousness  of  a  terrible  calamity  having  fallen 
on  me. 

"  By  degrees  it  became  clear  to  me  again,  in  its 
shocking  reality.  Yet  I  could  not  believe  it :  it  must 
be  a  dreadful  dream ;  or  I  was  laboring  under  some 
fearful  delusion.  I  rushed  back  to  the  house  with  a 
dreadful  resolution ;  knocked  and  rang  loud  enough 
to  wake  the  dead ;  again  the  slatternly  servant  ap 
peared  ;  I  pushed  her  aside,  and  rushed  into  the 
house,  exclaiming,  'Mrs.  Wilton!  I  must  see  Mrs. 
Wilton,  instantly.' 

"  '  Who  wants  me  ? '  a  loud,  coarse  voice  asked, 
from  the  stair-head ;  and  a  large,  bold-looking 
woman,  about  forty  years  of  age,  descended,  ex 
cessively  over-dressed,  with  bare  neck  and  bosom, 
her  cheeks  evidently  made  up  with  white  and  red 
paint,  but  with  a  fine,  and  even  classic  contour  of  fea 
tures,  in  which,  as  she  stood  in  the  light,  I  was  horror- 
struck  to  trace  a  resemblance  to  Coralie's  sweet  and 
innocent  face ! 

"  She  motioned  me  into  the  salon  I  have  mentioned, 
which  was  now  brilliantly  lighted ;  and,  seating  her 
self,  said  with  perfect  ease,  '  I  don't  think  I  have  ever 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before,  sir  ? '  f  No, 


176  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

madam,'  I  said  ;  '  and  would  to  God  I  had  never  seen 
you.'  (How!'  she  laughed,  contemptuously;  (}rou 
surely  did  not  come  here,  at  this  time  of  night,  to  tell 
me  that?'  CI  came  here,'  I  said,  'to  see  the  mother 
of  Coralie  Walton,  or  "Wilton,  whichever  name  she  is 
to  be  called  by :  I  have  seen  her,  and  hope  is  at  an 
end !  Good  God !  the  mother  of  Coralie  a ! ' 

"  c  Coralie ! '  she  said,  in  quite  a  different  voice ; 
and,  rising  to  shut  the  door,  '  Can  you  tell  me  any 
thing  of  her?  Can  you  tell  me  any  thing  of  my 
child  ?  She  has  fled  from  my  house.' — '  Thank  God,' 
exclaimed  I,  '  she  has  escaped  from  its  pollution ;  let 
me  too  leave  it,  and  cursed  be  the  hour  in  which  I 
ever  crossed  its  threshold  !'  '  But,  my  child,  sir !  my 
child !  I  demand  to  know  where  you  have  concealed 
my  child ! '  i  If  you  do  not  know,'  I  said,  c  where  she 
is,  I  will  not  inform  you :  be  it  your  punishment  to 
know  that  you  have  blighted  her  happiness,  and 
ruined  mine  for  ever.  Farewell ! ' — but  as  I  laid  my 
hand  on  the  door,  she  dashed  across  the  room,  seized 
rne  by  the  arm,  and  swore  that  I  should  not  leave  the 
house  till  I  had  told  her  where  she  could  find  her 
child.  She  clung  to  me  with  a  powerful  grasp  ;  but, 
by  a  desperate  effort,  I  threw  her  from  me,  rushed 
out  into  the  street,  fled  into  Langham  Place,  as  if  pur 
sued  by  fiends,  jumped  into  the  first  cab  T  saw,  drove 
to  the  Euston  Square  station,  and  was  in  Liverpool  by 
the  night-train  the  next  morning. 

"  Thence,  I  wrote  to  Coralie,  in  what  words  1  know 
not — but  a  wild,  a  passionate,  eternal  farewell :  yet,  in 
a  postscript  I  added  that  if  she  called  on  me  to  fulfil 
my  promise,  I  wrould  do  so ;  but,  that  the  day  that 


COBALIE   WALTON.  177 

wived  her  must  widow  her.  Her  answer  came  by  re 
turn-mail — how  I  passed  the  interval  I  know  not,  ex 
cept  that  I  wandered  about  among  the  docks  and  the 
shipping,  like  an  outcast  or  a  robber. 

"Her  answer  was  like  herself;  I  have  it  yet;  1 
will  read  it  to  you." 

He  pulled  from  his  breast  a  little  silken  pouch,  out 
of  which  he  took  a  worn,  and  discolored  letter,  and 
read,  with  faltering  voice,  these  words : 

"  '  Lionel,  farewell !  I  make  you  no  reproaches ;  I  claim  no 
promise ;  I  release  you  from  every  tie ;  my  sense  of  honor  is  as 
strong  as  yours ;  but  my  heart  is  crushed  !  Why  did  you  ever 
wake  it  to  a  hope  of  happiness  ?  May  you  be  happy,  and  forget 
the  wretched —  CORALIE.' 

"  How  could  I  resist  such  a  letter  ?  Why  did  I  not 
fly  to  her  feet,  and  carry  her  across  the  sea,  where  her 
name  and  her  history  could  never  have  been  guessed 
at?" 

"Ah!  why,  indeed,  did  you  not?"  said  I;  "that 
would  have  been  the  manly,  the  wise  course." 

"  Alas  !  I  know  it  now,"  he  said ;  "  but  then  I  was 
blinded  by  that  false  spirit  of  honor  which  leads  men 
to  infamy ;  and,  to  maintain  which,  they  barter  their 
happiness,  and  sell  their  souls  to  perdition.  For  this 
phantom  I  sacrificed  my  own  peace,  and  blighted  her 
hopes ;  was,  in  short,  the  murderer  of  her  I  loved : 
forgot  her  beauty,  her  innocence,  her  noble,  truthful 
nature,  and,  like  a  coward,  fled  ! — I  made  such  hasty 
arrangements  as  I  still  retained  sense  enough  to  make, 
realized  what  money  I  could  command,  and  in  three 
days  was  on  the  Atlantic  ocean : — the  rest  you  know  1" 


178  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

The  next  day  the  wretched  man  had  departed  to 
join  General  Taylor's  army  in  Mexico,  as  a  volunteer; 
and  shortly  after,  in  the  list  of  killed  at  the  battle  of 
Buena  Vista,  I  read  the  name  of  LIONEL  RANSOM. 


SAILS   VS.    PADDLES.  179 


XII. 

Trre  UNITED  STATES— My  First  Season— Early  Aspirations— The  Passage— Sails  vs 
Paddles— Philosophy  at  Sea— Arrival  in  New  York— Impressions— "  How  <lo 
you  like  our  Country?"— Prejudice— A  few  words  on  Hotels— New  York,  and 
Clarendon— Wines— Native  and  Foreign— The  Park  Theatre— Mr.  SIMPSON— A 
dialogue  with  him— My  First  Appearance— The  Company— Mr.  PLACIDE— 
Dreadful  state  of  Theatricals— Philadelphia— Walnut  Street  Theatre— CHAK- 
LOTTE  CUSHMAN— Elvira,  Naucy  Sykes,  Meg  Merrilies— Anecdote  of,  and  char 
acteristic  note  from  her— Her  first  appearance  in  London— Bowery  Theatre- 
Mr.  FOEEEST— His  Metamora— Boston— Tremont  Theatre— Dramatic  taste 
there. 

THE  United  States,  her  institutions,  people,  govern 
ment  and  wonderful  progress,  had  been  the  subject  of 
iny  eager  inquiry  and  increasing  interest,  ever  since  I 
had  been  capable  of  understanding  the  philosophy  of 
history,  or  of  speculating  on  the  theories  of  govern 
ment.  As  secretary  and  solicitor  to  the"  Liverpool 
Reform  Association — the  first  position  in  life  which 
made  me  known  in  public — it  had  naturally  fallen 
within  the  scope  of  my  inquiries  and  speculations  to 
examine  the  rise  and  advancement  of  that  Greatest  of 
Modern  Republics  ;  if,  indeed,  any  ancient  elective 
government  may  be  compared  with  it.  And  it  was 
therefore  not  merely  with  the  ambition  of  an  artist, 
but  also  with  the  ardent  curiosity  and  interest  of  a 
theoretical  republican  in  principle,  that  I  walked  the 


180  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

deck  of  the  fine  ship  THE  GARRICK,  which,  under  the 
guidance  of 

"  Him  who  has  the  steerage  of  my  course," — 

was  to  bear  me  to  the  land  where  the  great  experi 
ment  of  self-government  by  the  people  was  in  full 
blast  and  full  blow.  It  was  my  first  long  acquaint 
ance  with  the  sea,  and  I  enjoyed  it.  I  chose  a  sailing 
vessel  in  preference  to  steam,  that  I  might  see  the 
ocean  in  its  full  swing  and  natural  action,  without 
any  Watts'-bit  or  Fulton- curb  upon  it;  but  curvet 
ing,  caracolling,  rearing  and  plunging  like  a  war- 
horse,  with  the  ship  for  its  rider.  We  had  a  delight 
ful  passage  of  thirty  days ;  thirty  days  of  calm,  dreamy 
enjoyment.  I  have  made  the  passage  by  steam  many 
— about  fifteen — times  since ;  but  for  pleasure,  for  the 
free,  rollicking,  out-and-out  sensation  of  being  at  sea,  (I 
don't  mean  sea-sickness ; — heaven  forbid  !)  give  me 
sails  and  wind,  in  preference  to  steam  and  coal-smoke. 
On  a  question  of  time  merely,  steam  for  ever,  of  course : 
but  let  him  who  loves  the  sea,  trust  to  the  winged 
bird  that  skims  the  wave  lightly  and  easily  like  a  swan, 
and  in  smooth  water  floats  with  unruffled  plume 
upon  its  bosom.  "  But,  how  about  calms,  and  head 
winds?  "  some  one  will  say.  "  Well,  in  calms,  lie  la 
zily  down  on  deck  like  a  turtle  in  the  sun,  and  dream 
of  far-off  lands  and  spicy  groves  ;  or  loll  under  an 
awning,  on  a  coil  of  rope,  with  a  cigar  in  your  mouth, 
and  a  good  novel  in  your  hand,  and,  "  let  the  world 
wag"; — you  can  "  take  your  ease,  (as)  in  your  inn!" 
If  it  blow  hard,  and  the  wind  be  a-head,  hold  on  to  a 
belaying  pin  or  a  shroud,  and  listen  to  the  whistling 
of  the  gale  in  the  cordage,  and  watch 


NEW    YORK HOTELS.  181 

"  the  laboring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas 
Olympus  high,  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell 's  from  heaven ; " 

enjoy  the  storm,  revel  in  its  impotent  fury,  and  re 
joice  to  feel  the  good  ship  stanch  and  firm  as  a 

"  tower'd  citadel  or  pendant  rock, " 

beneath  your  feet.  If  you. have  not  nerve  enough 
for  this,  or  if,  as  Trinculo  says, 

"  your  stomach  be  not  constant," 

why,  e'en  turn  in,  wrap  yourself  snugly  up,  and  sleep 
in  peace  ;  with  the  happy  consciousness  that  you  are 
"  in  Heaven's  hand,  brother,"  and  that  there  is  no 
boiler  to  burst,  no  paddles  to  smash,  no  machinery  to 
give  way.  When  the  storm  has  ceased,  the  wind 
is  lulled,  and  the  sea  smooth  again,  jump  up,  forget 
your  qualms  and  sorrows  past,  take  a  brisk,  invigor 
ating  walk  on  deck,  and  go  down  to  breakfast  with 
the  appetite  of  a  shark :  if  it  don't  answer  to  the 
whip  at  once,  touch  it  up  with  a  thimbleful  of  cognac 
(mind  it  be  the  real),  with  not  a  drop  of  allaying  Croton 
in  it,  and  you'll  be  surprised  what  a  fillip  it  will 
give  nerves,  brain  and  stomach. 

This  all  pre-supposes  that  you  are  not  in  a  hurry, 
and  can  aiford  the  time :  if  time  be  an  object,  take  a 
Cunarder,  and  do  the  trip  in  ten  days. 

I  set  foot  ashore  in  New  York,  on  the  14th  Sep 
tember,  1842,  and  engaged  rooms  at  the  Old  Clinton 
Hotel,  in  Beekman  street,  in  the  immediate  neigh 
borhood  of  the  Park  Theatre.  The  two  brothers 


182  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Leland,  the  present  proprietors  of  the  Metropolitan 
Hotel,  were  clerks  in  the  office,  and  were  remarkable 
for  attention  to  the  guests.  Let  me  say,  that  the 
table  (TJibte  set  at  that  house — by  no  means  a  large 
one — far  surpassed  in  excellence,  and  superabundance 
of  good  things,  the  tables  which  we  now  find,  even  at 
the  best  hotels ;  there  was  not  so  much  attempt  at 
extravagant  display,  but  there  was 

"  that  which  passeth  show  " — 

a  really  good,  ample,  well-cooked  dinner;  and  the 
price  of  board  was  about  two-thirds  of  what  it  is  now. 
1  have  lived,  in  turn,  at  nearly  all  the  best  hotels  in 
the  Union, — the  Carlton,  the  New  York,  the  Claren 
don,  in  this  city ;  Jones's,  in  Philadelphia  ;  Bar- 
num's,  and  the  Eutaw  House,  in  Baltimore ;  Pulaski, 
in  Savannah ;  the  principal  hotels  in  Charleston,  St. 
Louis,  Cincinnati,  and  Louisville,  and  the  Old  St. 
Charles,  in  New  Orleans ;  and  I  don't  scruple  to  say, 
that  the  feeding  at  the  old  hotels  that  have  passed 
away,  was  better,  more  generous,  and  more  satisfac 
tory,  than  it  now  is  at  the  splendid  and  fashionable 
caravanseries  that  have  succeeded.  I  think  the  New 
York  and  Clarendon  Hotels,  in  this  city,  are  con 
ducted  in  a  most  liberal  style,  and  on  admirable 
systems  of  management ;  and  I  always  point  them  out 
to  my  friends  as  the  resting-places  for  ladies  and 
gentlemen  who  appreciate  comfort,  polite  attention, 
and  a  well-cooked  and  well-served  dinner.  I  must 
add,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  anywhere,  now 
adays,  such  tables  d'hote  as  were  set  at  the  old  Carl- 
ton  House,  in  this  city  (kept  by  Henry  Hodges,  a 


PALATABLE    POISON.  183 

most  liberal  caterer) ;  Jones's  Hotel,  Philadelphia 
(the  glories  of  which  have  passed  away  with  its  excel 
lent  proprietor,  a  perfect  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
who  has  retired  on  an  ample  and  well-earned  for 
tune)  ;  or  of  Jones's  (a  colored  man's)  little  snuggery 
in  Charleston,  where  the  finest  gentlemen  of  the  day 
were  wont  to  meet  at  dinner,  and  where  I  have  passed 
many  delightful  hours.  The  bill  of  fare  at  these  three 
places  was  always  tout  ce  qu'il  y  avait  de  plus  excel 
lent;  not  so  recherche  on  paper,  not  so  high-sounding, 
nor  so  remarkable  for  a  long  list  of  ill-spelt  entrees  of 
impossible  French  dishes, — but  liberal,  ample,  sub 
stantial,  appetizing,  well-cooked  dinners,  to  which  you 
sat  down  with  full  intent  to  do  justice,  and  from  which 
you  arose  content,  as  from  the  performance  of  a  good 
action.  A  man,  too,  dared  drink  half  a  bottle  of  wine, 
or  a  glass  of  brandy,  in  those  days,  and  in  those 
places,  with  the  confidence  that  they  were  wine  and 
brandy,  and  not  some  mysteriously-compounded, 
chemical  combination  of  alcohol  and  narcotic,  de 
structive  to  brain,  stomach,  and  vital  energy.  The 
liquors  of  the  present  day  might,  in  general,  and 
ought, to  be  labelled,  according  to  the  degree  of  their 
potency  for  evil — 

Dangerous, 
Deadly, 
Diabolical ! 

so  that  if  we  choose  to  drink  down  destruction,  we 
may  do  it  with  our  eyes  open.  The  liquor-corn  - 
pounders  of  the  day  always  remind  me  of  Burke's 
description  of  the  hypocritical  tears,  which  he  says 


184  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"Warren  Hastings  shed  whilst  signing  proscriptions, 
and  giving  orders  for  atrocious  cruelties  : — 

"  They  convert  the  healing  lalm  that  nature  gave  for  the  relief 
of  wounded  humanity,  into  a  rancorous  and  deadly  po ison  to  the 
race  of  man." 

Under  this  terrible  state  of  things, — -for  it  is  a  fact 
that  cannot  be  denied,  that  adulteration  in  liquors, 
nowadays,  means  poison, — the  man  who  shall  furnish 
a  pure,  undrugged,  unfortified,  juice  of  the  grape  (vino 
puro  e  semplice,  as  the  Italians  call  the  produce  of 
their  vine-clad  hills),  will  merit  the  name  of  a  public 
benefactor. 

Men  will  seek  some  stimulus  for  their  parched 
throats,  and  exhausted,  jaded  spirits ;  wisely,  or  un 
wisely,  they  will  drink  some  liquor  fermented,  or 
distilled.  Temperance  apostles  cannot  eradicate  what 
seems  to  be  a  natural  craving  of  the  human  system. 
I  have  no  doubt  they  do  a  great  deal  of  good  in 
diminishing  the  prevalence  of  intoxication,  and  its 
attendant  ills ;  but,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent,  men 
will  drink  ;  and  neither  water,  tea,  nor  coffee  seems 
to  satisfy  the  desire.  They  must  have  stimulus; 
it  is  that  which  seems  to  inspire  and  to  give  zest  to 
social  converse,  and  the  friendly  interchange  of  hos 
pitality,  when  the  overtaxed  mind  unbends,  and  for 
gets  its  daily  cares  in  the  happy  evening  hour.  Mind, 
I  only  state  a  fact ;  I  do  not  advise  or  applaud  the 
custom.  But,  as  the  fact  is,  as  the  custom  exists,  it 
behoves  us  to  see  that  "  the  social  glass  "  does  not 
conceal  "  a  rancorous  and  deadly  poison ! "  Else,  Bac 
chus,  instead  of  being  represented  as  the  rosy  god, 


THE    NATIVE    GRAPE.  185 

will  have  to  be  depicted  as  a  hideous  demon,  with 
blear  eyes  and  bloated  cheeks,  whose  emblems  shall 
be,  not  clusters  of  delicious  grapes,  but  a  death's 
head,  and  cross-bones,  with  a 

"  baneful  cup.  whose  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  who  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  reason's  mintage 
Character'd  in  the  face." 

These  effects  of  Comus's  magic  cup,  are  the  exact  pic 
ture  of  the  results  of  indulgence  in  the  baneful  con 
coctions  of  the  present  day ;  and,  therefore,  be  all 
encouragement  given  to  the  native  grape,  and  to  those 
who  express  its  sweet  juice.  They  are  the  practical 
.Apostles  of  Temperance  /  they  furnish  the  antidote  to 
the  poisoned  bowl.  Wine-growing  countries,  it  is 
well  known,  produce  few  drunkards  ;  delirium 
tremens  is  unknown  amongst  them.  In  the  recent 
public  demonstrations  and  exultations  at  the  prospect 
of  regeneration  from  Austrian  bondage,  which  have 
lighted  up  Italy,  as  with  a  general  illumination,  no 
fact  is  more  pleasing  or  more  significant,  than  that  no 
drunkenness  has  been  seen  in  street  or  public  place  ; 
and  that,  among  excited  and  freedom-maddened  thou 
sands,  no  other  intoxication  has  been  exhibited,  but 
the  heaven-born  delirium  of  newly-acquired  liberty ! 
Let  its  apply  the  lesson. 


On  the  posting-bills  on  the  walls,  which  were 
much  more  modest  and  less  monstrous  than  they  are 
now,  I  observed  my  name  underlined,  to  appear 


186  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

shortly,  at  the  Park  Theatre.  One  of  my  first  calls, 
therefore,  was  on  Mr.  Simpson,  the  manager.  I  found 
him  a  plain-mannered,  unpretending,  rather  reticent, 
man,  meaning  well,  but  slow,  irresolute,  and  with  no 
remarkable  business  capacity.  Theatrical  affairs,  he 
/fold  me,  were  at  a  very  low  ebb,  and  the  prospects 
for  the  season,  which  had  just  commenced,  were  any 
thing  but  brilliant.  I  could  not  have  come  over  at  a 
worse  time,  he  told  me ;  trade  was  generally  dull, 
money  scarce,  and  every  one  felt  flat,  so  that  the 
theatre,  of  course,  suffered.  This  was  mighty  pleas 
ing  intelligence  to  start  with ;  however,  I  had  to 
make  the  best  of  it. 

It  was  arranged  that  I  should  commence  my  en 
gagement  on  that  day  week,  and  we  proceeded  to 
discuss  the  plays  in  which  I  should  appear.  "  Ham 
let  "  was  fixed  on  for  my  opening  part.  I  proposed 
"  Benedick  "  for  the  second  night,  and  "  Macbeth  " 
for  my  third. 

"  Where  is  your  Beatrice  and  your  Lady  Mac 
beth  ? "  asked  Simpson. 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  I  have  certainly  not 
brought  them  in  my  pocket ;  I  expected  to  find  them 
here.  It  cannot  be  that  the  Park  Theatre  is  without 
a  leading  lady  ?  " 

"  We  have  no  one  for  those  parts,"  curtly  replied 
Simpson  ;  "  I  tried  to  get  Miss  Cushman  to  play  with 
you  ;  but  she  's  at  the  Walnut,  Philadelphia — stage 
manager  there." 

"  Can  we  do  <  Othello  ? ' "  I  asked. 

"  Not  well,"  he  answered  ;  "  a  difficulty  about 
Emilia." 


GEORGE    P.    MORRIS.  187 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  I  said,  in  despair,  "  what  can 
we  do?" 

"  We  can  do  '  Yirginius,' "  he  replied. 

"  Yery  well,"  I  said,  (glad  to  find  there  was  one 
play  that  could  be  done,)  "  Yirginius  be  it." 

So,  "  Yirginius"  was  fixed  for  my  second  night ;  and 
the  other  nights'  business  was  to  be  arranged  hereafter. 

The  fact  is,  that  the  Park  Company,  though  it 
contained  some  excellent  names,  was  weak  in  spots 
that  the  public  usually  expect  to  be  strong.  There 
were  Messrs.  ABBOTT,  PLACIDE,  BARRY,  OLD  FISHER 
(as  he  was  called),  Mrs.  YERNON,  Mrs.  WHEATLEY  ;  but 
the  leading  lady,  a  very  amiable  young  lady,  was 
quite  a  novice,  unstudied  and  inexperienced ;  there 
was  no  heavy  lady,  for  the  Emilias  and  Lady  Mac- 
beths ;  and  there  was  a  great  want  of  a  good  juvenile 
actor.  The  difficulties,  therefore,  in  the  way  of  cast 
ing  a  Shaksperean  play,  were  considerable. 

"With  the  sole  exception  of  General  GEORGE  P.  MOR 
RIS,  the  kind,  the  genial,  the  warrn-hearted  lyrist, — 
the  Beranger  of  America, — I  did  not  call  on  a  single 
dignitary  of  the  Press.  I  did  not  know  any  of  them 
personally,  and  I  have  through  life  abstained  from 
back-stairs  courting  of  the  Press,  or  from  any  side- 
winded  influence  being  attempted  upon  their  opinion, 
or  the  expression  of  it.  General  Morris  had  been 
mentioned  to  me,  by  my  father,  as  a  valued  friend  ; 
as  such,  I  presented  myself  to  him,  not  in  his  charac 
ter  of  the  editor  of  the  New  York  Mirror :  I  called 
on  the  gentleman,  not  on  the  redacteur.  No  editor, 
reporter,  or  city  item-ist,  was  I  introduced  to,  or  did  I 
meet,  in  any  way,  previous  to  my  appearance. 


188  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Meanwhile,  I  amused  myself  in  and  about  the 
City,  and  on  Long  Island ;  and  of  course  made  the 
acquaintance  of  many  good  friends,  and  of  nearly  all 
the  thirst-provoking  and  palate-pricking  drinks,  for 
which  the  New  York  Bar  is  famous  through  the  world. 

How  many  hundred  times  was  I  greeted,  imme 
diately  after  the  ceremony  of  an  introduction  had 
taken  place,  with  the  never-failing  question  of  "  Well, 
sir,  how  do  you  like  our  country  ?  "  and  frequently  the 
addition  of  "  What  do  you  think  of  our  city  ?  " — two 
very  comprehensive  questions,  opening  so  enlarged  a 
field  as  to  render  it  amazingly  difficult  to  epigramma- 
tize  an  answer.  The  thing  did  not  lie  in  a  nutshell ; 
it  was  a  theme  for  a  lecture,  a  discourse  of  at  least 
half  an  hour,  to  answer  it  properly.  However,  one 
was  obliged  to  dispose  of  it  with  a  "  glittering  gene 
rality," — if  such  a  thing  were  at  hand,  and  would 
answer  to  the  call.  New  York  was  not  then  the 
magnificent  city  which  she  has  grown  now  to  be ; 
there  was  no  Fifth  Avenue,  with  its  princely  residences, 
and  adjacent  streets  filled  with  houses  that  in  Europe 
would  be  described,  and  deservedly,  as  mansions. 
Broadway  was  a  long,  irregularly-built,  straggling 
street,  with  low  wooden  shanties  occasionally  inter 
mixed  with  the  brick  houses.  None  of  the  present 
splendid  piles  of  stone  at  the  Bowling-green,  and  no 
Stewart's,  no  Grace  Church,  no  Union  Square ;  so 
that  the  answer  to  the  question,  "  How  do  you  like 
our  city  ?  "  was  not  then  so  spontaneously  rapturous 
as  it  might  be  now.  But  now,  the  question  is  little 
asked ;  or  if  asked,  is  asked  with  a  conscious  feeling 
of  pride,  and  an  assured  confidence  as  to  the  answer, 


JOHN    BULL   ABROAD.  189 

as  a  reigning  'belle  might  challenge  a  certain  compli 
ment  to  the  set  of  her  bonnet,  the  elegance  of  her 
toilette,  and  the  perfection  of  her  tout-ensemble.  In 
those  days  it  was  different.  People  had  been  so 
abused,  and  be-Trolloped,  and  be-Dickensed,  that  they 
felt  an  uneasy  restlessness  as  to  the  impression  which 
they  might  make  on  educated  strangers.  So  far 
from  being  annoyed  by  the  appeal,  a  rational  man 
would  consider  it  an  involuntary  compliment. 

In  travelling  in  a  strange  country,  it  is  easy  to  find 
subjects  of  ridicule ;  but  neither  courteous  nor  wise 
to  indulge  in  it.  If  it  must  be  admitted  that  the 
nationality  of  an  American  is  rather  thin-skinned, 
peculiarly  and  sensitively  alive  to  any  thing  like  slur 
or  contempt  for  the  institutions,  productions,  or  cus 
toms  of  his  own  country,  it  must  also  be  confessed 
that  the  Englishman  is,  perhaps,  too  prone  to  seek  for 
grounds  of  complaint,  to  meet  little  annoyances  in  a 
carping  spirit,  to  make  invidious  comparisons,  to 
consider  every  thing  new  and  strange  to  him  or 
his  habits,  as  vulgar,  absurd,  or  disagreeable  ;  and 
quite  as  ready  to  assert  the  superiority  of  every  thing 
English  over  every  thing  foreign,  (that  is,  when  he  is 
abroad ;  at  home,  John  Bull  abuses  -home-doings 
heartily ! )  especially  every  thing  American,  as  the 
latter  is  to  be  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  impertinence. 
A  little  retenue,  a  little  recollection  of  the  demands 
and  practice  of  courtesy,  in  social  life,  would  be  of 
great  advantage  in  this  international  intercourse.  When 
a  man  visits  at  a  gentleman's  house,  the  host  does 
not  call  on  him  to  admire  his  dwelling,  to  praise 
his  furniture,  to  go  into  ecstasies  about  his  dinner 


190  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

or  his  wines ;  he  gives  him  the  best  he  has,  and  makes 
him  welcome.  The  guest,  on  the  other  hand,  does  not 
find  fault  either  with  his  room  or  its  appointments, 
his  fare,  or  his  entertainment ;  he  sees  that  the  host 
has  been  anxious  to  please  and  make  him  comfor 
table,  and  he  thanks  him,  and  is  content.  Still  less, 
if  he  be  a  gentleman,  does  he  go  away  and  ridicule 
and  abuse  his  host  behind  his  back  :  if  he  do  so,  he 
puts  himself  out  of  the  pale  of  social  courtesies. 
"  Wit,"  as  Sir  Peter  Teazle  well  observes,  "  is  more 
nearly  allied  to  good-nature  than  your  ladyship  im 
agines  ; "  and  satire  and  epigram  cease  to  tickle 
wrhen  their  aim  is  to  wound ;  still  more  are  they  to 
be  reprobated,  when  their  point  is  tipped  with  the 
venom  of  malice,  to  corrode  and  fester  where  it  strikes. 

A  man  may  surely  express  his  opinion,  if  asked, 
without  making  it  an  insult.  I  have  heard  of  one 
who,  being  asked,  before  a  number  of  people  in  Phil 
adelphia, — sillily  enough  perhaps, — "if  the  mutton 
in  England  was  as  good  as  in  America,"  replied,  with 
an  assumption  of  mystery,  and  in  a  subdued  whisper, 
to  the  interrogation — 

"  If  you'll  promise  not  to  tar  and  feather  me,  I'll 
tell  you ! " 

"Well?" 

"  Why,  then,"  said  the  Englishman,  "it  is  much 
better." 

Now  the  implication  involved  in  the  condition 
against  being  tarred  and  feathered  for  candid-speak 
ing,  was  clearly  a  volunteer  impertinence ;  and  was 
doubtlessly  felt  and  remembered  as  such,  in  the  ac 
count  against  the  impertinent's  countrymen. 


PARK    THEATRE.  191 

For  my  part,  1  have  always  expressed  my  opinion, 
when  invited,  freely,  but  not  in  offensive  terms ;  and 
I  have  travelled  the  country  from  Maine  to  New 
Orleans  and  St.  Louis,  several  times  over,  and  have 
never  yet  stood  in  fear  of  pistol  or  bowie-knife. 


Revenons  d  nos  moutons. 

I  made  my  first  appearance  at  the  Park  Theatre, 
on  Wednesday,  21st  September,  1842,  in  Hamlet :  Mr. 
PLACIDE  (the  best  Polonius,  and  the  best  actor  in  his 
varied  line  in  the  country)  was  the  Polonius ;  Mr. 
ABBOTT,  the  Ghost ;  Mr.  BAEEY,  Horatio  ;  Miss  HIL- 
DEETH,  Ophelia  ;  Mr.  FISHEE,  the  Grave-digger. 

Theatricals,  as  I  have  said,  were  at  a  very  low  ebb, 
trade  in  a  stagnant  state,  and  money  very  scarce.  I 
could  not  and  did  not  expect  a  great  house  :  there 
were  only  about  $400  ;  but  it  was,  I  assure  you,  not  a 
bad  house  for  those  times.  The  tragedy  was,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions,  generally  well  acted  ;  not,  I 
confess,  as  well  as  I  had  expected  from  the  Old  Drury 
of  America ;  because  the  cast  was  weak  in  two  im 
portant  parts  ;  but  it  went  off  smoothly  ;  I  was  vehe 
mently  applauded  ;  at  some  points  the  applause  was 
long  and  enthusiastic,  and  I  had  reason  to  be  proud 
of  my  reception  by  a  New  York  audience.  Of  course, 
I  was  called  for ;  but  that  supererogatory  compli 
ment,  now  staled  even  to  disgust,  did  not,  in  those 
days,  involve  a  speech ;  so,  I  was  not  under  the  ne 
cessity  of  ringing  the  changes  on  "  honor,"  "  kind 
ness,"  " liberal  support,"  "gratitude,"  "heart,"  "last 
moment  of  existence,"  and  the  other  round  of  set 


192  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

phrases    that  go   to  make  up    a    before- the-curtain 
speech. 

The  press,  all  spoke  in  favorable  terms  of  me ; 
some  of  them,  in  those  of  the  most  encouraging  and 
warmest  approval.  I  was  but  a  novice  ;  it  was  only 
my  third  season  on  the  stage,  and  I  might  naturally 
be  somewhat  anxious  about  the  verdict  of  New  York. 
I  rose  early  the  next  morning,  soon  had  every  paper 
in  my  room,  and  had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with 
the  general  opinion.  It  had  this  great  value  to  me, 
that  it  was  spontaneous,  unsolicited,  and  uninfluenced. 
May  I,  without  boring  the  reader,  make  an  extract, 
which  I  confess  gratified  me  much,  by  its  tone  of 
candor,  and  the  happiness  of  its  expression  ?  It  is 
from  poor  Porters  Spirit  of  the  Times,  24  September, 
1842. 

"THINGS  THEATRICAL. — The  principal  event  discussed  in 
theatrical  circles  during  the  past  week  has  been  the  appearance  of 
GRORGE  VANDENHOFF  at  the  Park,  on  Wednesday  evening,  in 
Hamlet.  In  person  Mr.  Vandenhoff  is  tall  and  well-formed,  with 
an  open  and  manly  countenance;  his  voice  is  of  a  strong  and 
pleasing  quality,  and  he  treads  the  stage  with  grace  and  dignity ; 
indeed,  he  is  calculated,  in  all  respects,  to  f  give  the  world 
assurance  of  a  man.'  His  performance  of  this  most  difficult 
character — the  test,  so  esteemed,  of  a  tragedian's  abilities,  gave 
great  satisfaction  to  the  large  audience  assembled  to  welcome  him. 
For  ourselves  we  confess  he  far  surpassed  the  expectations  we 
had  formed  of  him,  both  in  power  and  style.  His  readings  were 
remarkably  correct,  not  only,  but  in  good  taste ;  and  his  manner 
of  delivery,  free  and  without  effort,  avoiding  the  affected  and  con 
ceited  st}rle  of  the  younger  Kean,  as  well  as  the  monotonous  and 
tiresome  one  of  *****  Taken  as  a  whole,  the 
character  has  not  been  more  ably  performed,  in  this  city,  for  the 
last  six  years.  Mr.  V.  has  evidently  been  well  educated,  has 


HAMLET.  193 

deeply  studied  the  character,  and  understands  it,  and  aims  to  im 
press  the  conception  and  beauties  of  the  author  upon  his  audience, 
rather  than  by  '  tearing  a  passion  to  tatters,'  to  display  his  own 
strength  of  muscle  and  lungs.  It  may,  with  truth,  be  urged 
against  him  that  he  is  young  and  comparatively  inexperienced — 
that  time  and  study  will  much  improve  him ;  but  the  greatest 
present  drawback  upon  theatrical  prosperity,  both  here  and  in 
Europe,  is,  that  actors  are  generally  too  old,  or  comparatively 
broken  down  before  they  arrive  to  any  great  degree  of  excellence, 
thereby  rendering  their  performances  devoid  of  that  truthfulness 
of  appearance  so  necessary  in  keeping  up  the  scenic  effect.  It 
must  also  be  conceded  that  he  lacks  the  genius  that  enabled  the 
elder  Kean  to  electrify  his  audience  by  startling  effects,  and  hold 
them  in  breathless  astonishment  in  admiration  of  his  almost 
superhuman  efforts  to  depict  the  stronger  passions.  To  all  who 
expect  such  a  performance,  and  are  determined  to  deny  them 
selves  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  tragedy  until  they  can  see  it  as 
personified  by  a  Kean  or  a  Kemble,  we  prescribe  patience,  mixed 
with  strong  hope  and  faith,  and  we  only  wish  we  may  live  long 
enough  to  enjoy  the  treat  with  them.  But  to  those  who  are  fond 
of  tragedy,  and  are  duly  grateful  for  '  the  gift  the  gods  provide,' 
or,  in  more  common  parlance,  are  satisfied  with  '  the  best  the. 
market  affords,'  we  strongly  commend  Mr.  Vandenhoff  's  perform 
ances  as  possessing  more  merit  and  developing  more  good  sense 
and  judgment  than  that  of  any  other  man  recently  among  us." 

The  next  night  I  played  Yirginius,  the  night  after 
repeated  Hamlet ;  Leon  followed ;  a  new  play  by 
Kuowles,  the  "  Rose  of  Arragon,"  (his  last  rose  of  the 
autumn  of  his  dramatic  fame,)  was  produced  the  next 
week ;  but  it  failed  to  attract ;  it  was  displaced  for 
Macbeth,  and  a  repetition  of  Hamlet ;  for  my  benefit  I 
played  Claude  Melnotte,  and  Benedick,  to  about 
$400. 

"  The  time  was  out  of  joint, 
9 


194  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK, 

and  the  Theatre  seemed  in  a  state  of  compound  frac 
ture  ; 

"  No  med'cine  i'  the  world  could  do  it  good." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brougham  followed  me,  with  very  in 
different  success ;  and  the  season  was  a  most  dis 
astrous  one.  Full  salaries  were  seldom,  I  believe, 
paid ;  and  the  fortunes  of  Old  Drury  kicked  the 
beam. 

PHILADELPHIA. — My  next  engagement  was  at  the 
Walnut  St.  Theatre,  Philadelphia ;  Marshall,  manager, 
Miss  Cushman,  stage-manager.  Among  the  company, 
were  William  Wheatley,  Fredericks,  Susan  Cushman, 
Mrs.  Maeder.  In  some  respects,  therefore,  it  was 
stronger  than  that  of  the  Park  Theatre  at  that  time ; 
but  it  had  no  Placide  (the  best  comedian  of  his  da.y 
and  country) ;  and  no  Fisher  (that  most  quaint  and 
useful  actor) ;  nor  Mrs.  Wheatley ;  nor  was  there 
so  good  an  actor  as  Barry,  in  the  heavy  business. 

I  played  six  nights  there.  In  addition  to  the  bad 
ness  of  the  times,  it  was  Election  week  in  October, 
which  contributed  to  damage  my  business.  I  received 
only  $180  for  my  share  of  the  six  nights ;  but  the 
manager  told  me  the  houses  had  been  better  than  he 
expected  from  the  times ;  so  you  may  guess  what 
times  they  were.  Mr.  Forrest  followed  me  the  Mon 
day  after ;  I  was  present  at  his  first  night's  perform 
ance,  Macbeth ;  and  his  house  was  not,  I  think,  at 
all  better  than  my  last.  If  he  could  not  draw  in 
Philadelphia,  who  could  ? 

Charlotte  Cushman,  whom  I  met  now,  for  the  first 
time,  was  by  no  means,  then,  the  actress  which  she 


CHARLOTTE    CUSHMAN.  195 

afterwards  became.  She  displayed  at  that  day,  a 
rude,  strong,  uncultivated  talent ;  it  was  not  till  after 
she  had  seen  and  acted  with  Mr.  Macready, — which 
she  did  the  next  season, — that  she  really  brought  artis 
tic  study  and  finish  to  her  performances.  At  this 
time,  she  was  frequently  careless  in  the  text,  and 
negligent  of  rehearsals.  She  played  the  Queen  to  me 
in  Hamlet,  and  I  recollect  her  shocking  my  ear,  and 
very  much  disturbing  my  impression  of  the  reality  of 
the  situation,  by  her  saying  to  me  in  the  closet-scene 
(Act  III.), 

"  What  wilt  thou  do  ?  thou  wilt  not  Mil  me  ?  " 
instead  of 

"  What  wilt  thou  do  ?  thou  wilt  not  murder  me  ?  " — 

thus  substituting  a  weak  word  for  a  strong  one,  dilut 
ing  the  force,  and  destroying  the  rhythm  of  the  verse. 
She  was  much  annoyed  at  her  error  when  I  told  her 
of  it ;  but  confessed  that  she  had  always  so  read  the 
line,  unconscious  of  being  wrong. 

I  played  Holla  with  her;  and  she  was,  even  then, 
the  best  Elvira,  I  ever  saw.  The  power  of  her  scorn, 
and  the  terrible  earnestness  of  her  revenge,  were  im 
mense.  Her  greatest  part,  fearfully  natural,  dread 
fully  intense,  horribly  real,  was  Nancy  Sykes,  in  the 
dramatic  version  of  Oliver  Twist ;  it  was  too  true  ;  it 
was  painful,  this  actual  presentation  of  Dickens's  poor 
abandoned,  abused,  murdered,  outcast  of  the  streets ; 
a  tigress,  with  a  touch,  and  but  one,  of  woman's  almost 
deadened  nature,  blotted,  and  trampled  under  foot  by 
man's  cruelty  and  sin. 


196  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

It  is  in  darkly-shadowed,  lurid-tinged,  characters 
of  a  low  order,  like  this  and  Meg  Merrilies, — half  hu 
man,  half  demon, — with  the  savage,  animal  reality 
of  passion,  and  the  weird  fascination  of  crime,  re 
deemed  by  fitful  flashes  of  womanly  feeling, — that  she 
excels.  I  never  admired  her  Lady  Macbeth.  It  is 
too  animal ;  it  wants  intellectual  confidence,  and  re 
lies  too  much  on  physical  energy.  Besides,  she  bul 
lies  Macbeth;  gets  him  into  a  corner  of  the  stage, 
and — as  I  heard  a  man  with  more  force  than  elegance, 
express  it — she  "  pitches  into  him ; "  in  fact,  as  one  sees 
her  large,  clenched  hand  and  muscular  arm  threaten 
ing  him,  in  alarming  proximity,  one  feels  that  if  other 
arguments  fail  with  her  husband,  she  will  have  re 
course  to  blows.  Meg  Merrilies  has  been  her  great 
fortune-teller  and  fortune-ma^^. 

Susan,  her  sister,  was  a  pretty  creature,  but  had 
not  a  spark  of  Charlotte's  genius;  she  pleased  "the 
fellows,"  however,  and  was  the  best  walking-lady  on 
the  American  Stage.  (Walking-ladies,  madam,  arc 
not  pedestrians,  necessarily  ;  it  is  the  English  term  for 
what  they  call  on  the  French  stage,  ingenues  ;  young 
ladies  of  no  particular  strength  of  character,  whose 
business  is  to  look  pretty,  to  dress  prettily,  and  to 
speak  prettily  ;  charmingly  innocent,  and  deliciously 
insipid.) 

When  Charlotte  took  her  leave  of  the  E"ew  York 
public,  previous  to  sailing,  or  steaming  rather,  for  Eng 
land,  where  she  had  resolved  to  try  her  fortune,  I  ap 
peared,  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Simpson,  as  Benedick 
to  her  Beatrice,  on  her  farewell  night,  at  the  Park 
Theatre  (25th  Oct.,  1844).  The  house  was  by  no 


CHARACTERISTIC   NOTE.  197 

means  full ;  and  she  played  Beatrice,  that  night,  care 
lessly  or  over-anxiously,  I  don't  know  which — the 
effect  of  either  is  much  the  same.  I  recollect  particu 
larly,  that  she  ran  part  of  one  act  into  another  in  a 
scene  with  me,  in  a  very  perplexed  and  perplexing 
manner.  When  we  came  off,  she  exclaimed — 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  what  have  I  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Knocking  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  together,  ex 
temporaneously,"  I  replied. 

The  fact  is,  she  was  disappointed  with  the  house ; 
the  result  being,  then,  of  some  moment  to  her.  That 
audience  little  dreamt  with  what  an  accession  of  rep 
utation  and  fortune  she  would  return  amongst  them ! 

Looking  over  my  papers,  I  find  a  most  character 
istic  note  from  her  to  me  during  the  above  engage 
ment  at  Philadelphia,  which — for  it  contains  nothing 
confidential — I  give  my  readers  as  a  curiosity.  It  is 
written  in  a  bold,  masculine  hand,  something  "  like 
the  hand  that  writ  it."  The  italics  mark  the  words 
which  were  underscored,  heavily. 

Wednesday  night, 

Half-past  2. 
Mon  Ami, 

After  a  late  supper,  prepared  for  you  (but  no  one  could  get  a 
sight  of  you  all  the  evening),  and  studying  a  long  part — I  have  to 
request  a  great  favor  of  you — viz. — to  take  the  enclosed  packet 
for  me  to  Boston.  I  have  to-day  written  some  three  or  four 
letters,  not  of  introduction  (that  might  offend  }rou),  but  calculated 
to  do  you  some  service — to  Boston.  I  shall  only  be  too  proud  if 
they  are  of  any  service  to  you — for  without  nonsense,  I  have 
scarcely  ever  seen  one  I  should  be  more  sincerely  happy  to  serve 
than  yourself — and  no  humbug  !  It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to 


198  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

me  whether  you  believe  this  or  not — I  feel  it — and  so  God  Hess 
you !  till  we  meet  again.  You  shall  hear  from  me  shortly,  and 
believe  me  sincerely  your  friend^ 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN. 

P.  S.  Half  asleep — a  bad  pen,  no  ink,  no  paper,  and  as  low- 
spirited  as  a  fiend  !  All  excuses  sufficient. 

The  manner  in  which  she  obtained  her  first  en 
gagement  in  London,  is  so  characteristic  of  the  spirit 
and  pluck  of  the  woman,  that  I  cannot  resist  telling 
it,  as  it  was  related  to  me  by  Maddox,  the  manager  of 
the  Princess's  Theatre  (1845). 

On  her  first  introduction  to  him,  Miss  Cushman's 
personal  gifts  did  not  strike  him  as  exactly  those 
which  go  to  make  up  a  stage  heroine,  and  he  declined 
engaging  her.  Charlotte  had  certainly  no  great  pre 
tensions  to  beauty  ;  but  she  had  perseverance  and  en 
ergy,  and  knew  that  there  was  the  right  metal  in  her : 
so  she  went  to  Paris,  with  a  view  to  finding  an  en 
gagement  there,  with  an  English  company.  She 
failed,  too,  in  that,  and  returned  to  England,  more  res 
olutely  than  ever,  bent  on  finding  employment  there  ; 
because  it  was  now  more  than  ever  necessary  to  her. 
It  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  almost.  She  armed 
herself,  therefore,  with  letters  (so  Maddox  told  me) 
from  persons  who  wrere  likely  to  have  weight  with 
him,  and  again  presented  herself  at  the  Princess's ; 
but  the  little  Hebrew  wras  obdurate  as  Shylock,  and 
still  declined  her  proffered  services.  Repulsed,  but 
not  conquered,  she  rose  to  depart ;  but,  as  she  reached 
the  door,  she  turned  and  exclaimed  :  "I  know  I  have 
enemies  in  this  country ;  but — {and  here  she  cast 
herself  on  her  knees,  raising  her  clenched  hand  aloft) 


RIVAL    TRAGEDIANS.  199 

so  help  me !  I'll  defeat  them  !  "  She  uttered 

this  with  the  energy  of  Lady  Macbeth,  and  the  pro 
phetic  spirit  of  Meg  Merrilies.  "  Helho  ! "  said  Mad- 
dox,  to  himself,  "  s'  help  me !  she's  got  de  shtuff  in 
her  !  "  and  he  gave  her  an  appearance,  and  afterwards 
an  engagement  in  his  theatre. 

She  opened  there  with  Mr.  FOKKEST,  in  Macbeth  ; 
and  carried  away  the  honors  of  the  night.  It  was 
on  this  occasion  that  those  marks  of  disapproba 
tion  were  showered  on  the  great  American  actor, 
which  so  highly  incensed  him,  and  which  were  at 
tributed  by  him,  with  great  injustice,  I  believe, 
to  Mr.  Macready's  influence,  and  were  so  fatally  re 
venged  in  1849,  at  the  Astor  Place  Opera  House ;  when 
Mr.  Macready  was  driven  from  that  stage,  and  com 
pelled  to  fly,  probably,  for  his  life.  Innocent  victims 
fell  outside  the  theatre  on  that  dreadful  night,  who 
had  no  hand  or  part  in  the  quarrel,  perhaps  scarcely 
a  knowledge  of  its  cause. 

On  his  first  visit  to  England  (in  1835-6),  Mr. 
Forrest  received  the  most  flattering  applause  from 
press  and  public  ;  and,  one  thing  is  certain,  that  if  the 
disapprobation  manifested  towards  him,  justly  or  un 
justly,  on  his  second  visit,  was  a  got-up  thing,  it  was 
not  done  in  an  anti-American  spirit:  for  Charlotte 
Cushman,  on  the  same  night,  was  vehemently  ap 
plauded,  and  loudly  called  for.  And,  further,  she  af 
terwards  played  alone,  at  the  same  theatre  :  that  is, 
without  Mr.  Forrest ;  and  was  always  received  with 
great  favor.  She  never  fails,  I  believe,  to  attribute 
her  great  after-success,  and  the  harvest  of  fame  and 
fortune  which  she  afterwards  reaped  in  her  own  coun- 


200  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

try,  to  the  instantaneous  recognition  of  her  talents  in 
England. 

MADAME  PISARONI,  the  greatest  prima  donna  of 
her  day  (1790  about),  had  so  unfortunate  a  counte 
nance,  that  when  any  Impresario  proposed  an  engage 
ment  to  her,  she  first  sent  him  a  miniature  of  herself, 
as  she  actually  looked,  painted  to  the  life,  without 
flattery.  If  this  did  not  frighten  him,  she  entered  into 
the  negotiation;  and,  when  she  sang,  she  kept  her 
hands  in  motion  before  her  face,  to  prevent  the  eye 
of  the  audience  from  dwelling  on  it,  lest  its  disagreea 
ble  features  might  destroy  the  effect  of  her  marvel 
lous  voice  and  execution. 


BOAVERY  THEATRE. — Passing  through  ISTew  York, 
on  my  way  from  Philadelphia  to  Boston,  I  accepted 
an  offer  from  TIIOS.  HAMBLIN,  and  played  six  nights 
at  the  Bowery  Theatre  :  Macbeth,  Hamlet,  lago 
(twice),  M.  Antony,  Faulconbridge :  the  great  Tom 
himself  was  the  Othello,  Brutus,  and  King  John.  The 
business  was  not  good  :  all  the  theatres  in  New  York 
were  at  the  lowest  water  mark  ;  and  even  Mr.  Forrest, 
at  the  old  Chatham  Theatre,  was  playing  a  wretched 
engagement.  I  was  taken  there  by  one  of  his  great 
est  admirers,  to  see  him  in  "  Metamora,"  and  was 
surprised  to  find  the  house  more  than  three-fourths 
empty.  He,  however,  acted  with  his  accustomed 
vigor  ;  and  I  freely  acknowledge  that,  for  power  of 
destructive  energy,  I  never  heard  any  thing  on  the 
stage  so  tremendous  in  its  sustained  crescendo  swell, 
and  crashing  force  of  utterance,  as  his  defiance  of  the 


THE    MODERN    ATHENS.  201 

Council,  in  that  play.  His  voice  surged  and  roared 
like  the  angry  sea,  lashed  into  fury  by  a  storm ;  till, 
as  it  reached  its  boiling,  seething  climax,  in  which  the 
serpent  hiss  of  hate  was  heard,  at  intervals,  amidst  its 
louder,  deeper,  hoarser  tones,  it  was  like  the  falls  of 
Niagara,  in  its  tremendous  down-sweeping  cadence  : 
it  was  a  whirlwind,  a  tornado,  a  cataract  of  illimita 
ble  rage  ! 

BOSTON. — I  made  my  first  appearance  at  the  Tre- 
mont  Theatre — now  the  Tremont  Temple,  and  the 

scene  of  the  Rev. Kellog's  spiritual  ministrations 

and  manifestations — on  16th  Nov.,  1842,  in  Hamlet ; 
and,  with  an  interval  of  two  nights'  absence  at  Provi 
dence,  played  there,  on  re-engagements,  altogether  five 
weeks,  during  which  I  repeated  Hamlet  and  Macbeth 
three  times  each,  and  appeared  in  Coriolanus  and 
Hotspur,  each  for  the  first  time.  Dr.  JONES,  a  fair 
and  easy-going,  good-natured,  but  not  very  enterpris 
ing  man,  was  manager ;  and,  I  think,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  that  excellent,  solid,  sterling  actor,  JOHN 
GILBERT,  and  his  wife,  the  company  was  about  as  poor 
a  one,  as  a  whole,  as  was  ever  assembled  in  the  walls 
of  a  respectable  theatre. 

I  have  to  congratulate  myself,  however,  that,  in 
spite  of  the  bad  times,  and  the  frightful  depression 
of  theatricals  in  the  modern  Athens — as  Edmund  Kean, 
I  believe,  baptized  Boston,  transferring  to  it  the  sobri 
quet  of  Edinburgh — I  had  the  good  fortune  to  play  to 
some  good  houses,  and  to  establish  myself  in  the  favor 
of  that  notional,  capricious,  and  rather  uncertain  pub 
lic — a  favor  which,  I  think,  I  may  venture  to  flatter 


202  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

myself,  I  have  since  rather  increased  than  diminished, 
both  in  the  Lecture-Room  and  the  Theatre : — I  have 
played  in  every  theatre  in  Boston  :  Tremont,  National 
(the  old  one  under  Pelby,  and  the  last  but  one,  which 
was  burnt  down  during  my  engagement),  and  the 
Howard  Athenseum.  I  spoke  the  first  word  in  it 
that  was  ever  spoken  from  the  stage — the  address  on 
the  opening  night,  5th  Oct.,  1846.  It  was  written 
by  a  clergyman,  and  was  a  lamentable  specimen  of 
clerical  versification.  At  the  Museum,  I  have  played 
several  highly  advantageous  engagements,  as  friend 
MOSES  will  confess ;  and,  finally,  three  engagements 
at  the  present  over-large  and  mal-acoustic  Boston 
Theatre,  under  the  veteran  Barry. 

It  is,  however,  an  unfortunate  fact,  that,  in  spite 
of  the  proverbial  literary  taste  of  the  City  of  Notions, 
the  Drama,  properly  so  called — I  mean  the  Drama  of 
Shakspere,  Sheridan,  Knowles,  Bulwer,  &c. — does 
not  generally  attract  the  Bostonians.  Show  and  spec 
tacle,  glitter,  blue  flame  and  pantomimic  extrava 
gance,  have  infinitely  greater  charms  for  them.  Ham 
let,  Macbeth,  the  School  for  Scandal,  have  no  chance 
against  the  Ravels  and  pantomime  ;  and,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  Mr.  Barry  cleared  more  money  for  the 
stockholders  last  season,  by  the  revival  of  the  carcase 
of  the  old  (one)  horse-piece  of  the  "  Cataract  of  the 
Ganges,"  without  a  line  of  poetry — scarcely  of  com 
mon  sense — in  it,  than  he  ever  made  in  Boston  by  the 
most  careful  production  of  the  highest  Shaksperean 
Drama,  or  of  the  most  elegant  Comedy. 


SOUTHERN   ENGAGEMENTS.  203 


XIII. 

SOUTHERN  ENGAGEMENTS—  New  Orleans—  At  Sea—  A  Temperance  Man—  St. 
Charles  Hotel  —  Amusements,  Balls,  Duels,  &c.  —  A  SOCIETY  BALL  —  Quadroon 
Almacks—  Dingy  Dowagers—  Contrasts  in  Life—  New  St.  Charles  Theatre—  An 
Incident  —  Mr.  Hackett:  his  Eichard  III.  —  MOBILE  —  New  American  Theatre, 
N.  O.—  Attempt  at  a  Eow—  A  Deputation—  Smoke  without  Fire—  BALTIMORE— 
MARYLAND  q  FAIRYLAND  ?  —  PHILADELPHIA  :  Walnut  St.  —  CHARLOTTE  Ctrsn- 
MAN'S  Romeo  —  Eeturn  to  Park  Theatre  —  Summary  —  HOME. 


ORLEANS.  —  I  had  always  desired  to  visit  New 
Orleans.  Finding  theatrical  prospects  for  the  win 
ter  very  hazy,  at  the  North,  and,  having  received 
overtures  from  Mr.  Caldwell,  the  proprietor  of  the  old 
St.  Charles  Theatre,  1  resolved  to  try  my  fortune  in 
the  South.  As  I  did  not  intend  to  stop  on  the  way,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  by  sea,  as  the  easiest,  as  well 
as  cheapest  mode  of  travelling  the  distance  through. 
I  therefore  engaged  a  state-room  in  the  "  Oswego," 
Capt.  Oliver  Eldridge  ;  a  sailing  packet,  of  about  TOO 
tons  ;  laid  in  a  few  extra  stores  ;  and,  with  the  addi 
tion  of  a  case  of  most  excellent  sherry,  sent  on  board 
for  me  by  the  kindness  of  a  friend,  I  looked  forward 
to  getting  through  the  passage,  of  it  might  be  a  fort 
night,  perhaps,  with  comfort,  and  even  with  pleasure. 
I  found  our  captain  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever  walked  a 


204  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

deck,  our  ship  an  excellent  sailer,  our  fare  plain,  sub 
stantial,  and  good.  We  had  only  four  or  five  passengers, 
none  of  whom  deserve  particular  mention,  except,  per 
haps,  a  temperance-man,  one  M ,  of  Philadelphia  ; 

who,  at  the  outset,  inveighed  strongly  against  the  use 
of  wine,  spirits,  or  of  any  liquors  fermented  or  dis 
tilled  ;  but  whom,  after  twenty-four  hours'  sea-sick 
ness,  I  charitably  persuaded  to  take  a  little  grog,  for 
the  comfort  of  his  stomach.  He  found  the  prescrip 
tion  so  efficacious  against  mal  de  mer,  that  he  stuck 
pretty  steadily  to  it  for  the  remainder  of  the  passage  : 
a  fact,  to  which  the  grievous  diminution  of  my  stock 
fearfully  bore  witness.  He  grew  particularly  fond  of  a 
certain  amalgamation  of  Jamaica  rum,  hot-water, 
lemon  and  sugar,  in  the  chemical  admixture  of  which 
I  flattered  myself  I  was  an  adept ;  and  he  acquired  a 
singular  taste  for  the  delicate,  pale  sherry  which  I 
have  before  mentioned,  as  forming  part  of 

"my  little,  but  my  precious  store. 

Whether  good  or  bad,  in  general,  these  indulgences  of 
the  spirit  brought  up  his  flesh  amazingly.  He  was  a 
thin,'lath-y,  dyspeptic-looking  fellow ;  but  generous  liv 
ing  made  a  new  man  of  him.  I  never  saw  a  fellow 
on  whose  conscience  the  total  abandonment  of  his  tee 
total  principles  and  practice  sat  so  lightly ;  I  should 
rather  say,  so  heavily ;  for  he  increased  in  flesh  the 
more  he  rejoiced  in  spirit.  "Whether, or  no,  he  thought 
it  for  my  health's  sake,  as  being  of  rather  a  full  habit 
and  sanguine  temperament,  to  remove  temptation  out 
of  my  reach,  1  know  not :  if  so,  his  zeal  in  my  cause 
was  most  self-sacrifising  ;  for  he  attacked  the  enemy, 
my  bottle,  with  the  most  unflinching  devotion  to  my 


NEW    OKLEANS.  205 

service ; — though  I  will  do  him  the  justice  to  say,  that 
he  so  far  carried  out  his  principles  strictly  on  this 
point,  that  he  never  drank  any  wine  or  spirits  of  his 
own.  The  steward  had  no  account  against  him  ;  no 
awful  score ;  no  "  trim  reckoning  "  could  be  thrown 
in  his  face.  And  the  very  last  circumstances  under 
which  I  saw  him,  the  day  after  our  arrival  in  port, 
when  I  went  down  to  the  ship  to  give  orders  about 
my  baggage,  were — seated  in  the  saloon,  with  crackers 
and  cheese,  and  a  "bottle  of  my  sherry,  fresh  opened, 
before  him  /  for  he  had  a  sublime  contempt  for  the 
refinements  of  proprietary  distinctions  in  the  article 
of  liquor :  he  was  quite  Proudhommeish  in  his 
views  on  that  head.  He  seemed  to  think  that,  in 
these  cases,  (liquor-cases)" la propr iete  c'est  le  vol" — 
and  he  acted  accordingly. 

We  made  the  passage  in  a  little  over  nine  days ; 
and  I  congratulated  myself  that  I  had  chosen  the  sea, 
instead  of  the,  then,  dreadfully  tiresome  land-con 
veyance. 

On  arriving  in  New  Orleans,  I  found  the  old  St. 
Charles  Theatre — which  is  reported  to  have  been  one 
of  the  finest  buildings,  for  dramatic  purposes,  in  the 
world — burnt  clown  ;  and  the  American  Theatre — a 
new  stand,  opened  by  Mr.  Caldwell,  on  the  destruc 
tion  of  his  property  in  Camp  Street — just  closed  by 
him,  for  want  of  support ;  he  had  been  able  to  keep  it 
going  only  about  a  month,  and  that  at  considerable 
loss.  The  theatrical  prospect  was  evidently  refresh 
ing — highly  encouraging  to  a  new  arrival !  However, 
I  took  up  my  quarters  at  the  old  St.  Charles  Hotel — 
and  "  lay  back  to  see  what  would  turn  up." 

Messrs.  Smith  (Old  Sol,  as  he  was  called)  and 


206  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Ludlow  were  already  engaged  in  the  erection  of  a  new 
St.  Charles  Theatre ;  men  were  at  work  upon  it  night 
and  day ;  it  was  to  be  completed  and  opened  imme 
diately. 

Meanwhile,  one  Dinneford,  appeared  in  the  field, 
as  the  lessee  of  the  American  Theatre,  and  made  pro 
posals  to  me  to  appear  on  the  night  of  its  re-opening ; 
a  proposition  which  I  declined ;  preferring  to  wait ; 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  enjoying  the  "  varieties  "  of  the 
multiform,  multi-colored,  multi-lingual,  multi-ludal 
city,  which  is  levee  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi. 

Nor  did  the  time  hang  heavy  on  my  hands.  The 
St.  Charles  Hotel  was  the  High  Change  of  news, 
conversation,  politics,  scandal ;  and,  under  the  con 
duct  of  Messrs.  Waters  and  Mudge  was,  in  spite  of 
the  multitudinous  throng  that  inhabited  it,  a  most 
comfortable  hostelrie.  There  you  met  strangers 
from  all  parts  of  the  world ;  acquaintances  from  every 
country,  or  city  that  you  had  ever  visited,  were  con 
tinually  coming  suddenly  upon  you,  and  hailing  you 
with  friendly  and  unexpected  greeting. 

Sometimes,  the  ordinary  flow  of  life  was  ruffled  by 
a  squall  or  two,  which  troubled  its  surface,  dashed  a 
little  spray  around,  and  all  was  right  again.  JSTow 
and  then,  a  duel  d  Voutrance  would  furnish  a  day's 
interest ;  sometimes,  the  immense  bar-room,  in  which 
thousands  assembled  at  a  time,  was  the  scene  of 
a  little  excitement :  high  words  would  be  heard 
at  one  end ;  a  scuffle,  perhaps ;  a  general  clearing 
took  place  for  a  moment,  a  pistol-shot  or  two  were 
fired,  a  body  was  carried  out,  the  lookers-on  closed 
up  again,  and  the  matter  was  forgotten. 


SOCIETY-BALLS.  207 

Or,  the  orderly  current  of  a  quadrille  in  a  ball 
room,  or  the  mazy  movements  of  the  waltz,  were 
broken  by  a  quick  and  fatal  stab,  that  left  some  much- 
coveted  damsel  unpartnered  for  a  moment ;  but  the 
music  scarcely  stops,  the  waters  join,  the  half-uttered 
compliment  is  taken  up  again,  the  half-told  anecdote 
is  concluded,  the  interrupted  laughter  rings  livelier, 
louder  than  before ; 

"  On  goes  the  dance,  and  joy  is  unconfined  j " 

eyes  sparkle,  feet  twinkle,  white  shoulders  shine  be 
neath  a  thousand  lamps,  swelling  bosoms  heave,  and 
pant,  and  sigh,  as  triumph,  love,  or  envy  moves  them  ; 
and  gay  cavaliers  flit  about,  pouring  volleys  of  quick- 
winged  compliments,  or  shooting  feathered  darts  of 
passionate  admiration,  till  the  ears  of  the  fair  tingle 
again  ;  and  one  is  bewildered  by  the  many-tongued 
accents,  that  make  the  ball-room  a  Babel  of  confused 
delight. 

New  Orleans  life  was  a  very  different  thing  in 
1842,  from  what  it  is  now  that  the  sober,  calculating, 
Yankee  element  is  so  largely  mingled  with  the  glow 
ing,  impassioned,  Southern  and  Creole  nature. 

It  then,  had  a  very  mixed  aspect :  full  of  contrasts 
of  color,  language,  manners,  conditions;  abounding 
in  contradictions,  anomalies,  discords,  and  strange 
blendings  of  antagonistic  elements. 

One  phase  of  its  parti-colored  life,  particularly 
struck  me.  It  was  what  were  called — Society-Sails. 
They  were  got  up  by  subscription,  among  men  ot 
wealth  and  fashion ;  by  whom  invitations  were  is 
sued,  and  arrangements  made  that  brought  together, 


208  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

on  the  evening  of  each  ball,  the  most  agreeable  men, 
citizens,  and  strangers,  a  select  party,  and  the  most 
beautiful  quadroons  that  New  Orleans  could  boast. 

By  the  kindness  of  an  influential  friend,  I  received 
a  card  for  one  of  these  Re-unions,  and  attended  it 
with  great  curiosity  and  interest.  On  entering  the 
salle,  which  was  a  large,  handsome,  well-lighted 
room,  I  found  a  company,  consisting  of  about  a 
hundred,  or  a  hundred  and  twenty — male  and 
female;  the  dancing  was  at  its  height;  but  as  or 
derly,  decent,  and  well-conducted  as  in  the  salons  of 
Paris  or  New  York.  As  far  as  propriety  of  behavior, 
and  retenue  went,  it  would  have  made  Mabille  blush 
for  itself — if  Mabille  ever  blushed  !  No  liberties,  no 
freedom  of  action,  or  words.  There  was  a  perfect 
blaze  of  warm,  voluptuous  beauty ;  an  assemblage  of 
as  finely-formed,  bright-eyed  houris,  as  ever  I  looked 
on  at  one  glance.  None  of  them  _were  strongly 
marked  with  the  features,  or  betraying  sigrus  of  their 
race ;  most  of  them  would  pass,  in  the  glare  of  arti 
ficial  light,  as  I  saw  them,  for  brunettes, — Men  pro- 
noncees,  it  is  true.  Some  of  them  showed  no  tinge  of 
their  descent  at  all ;  but  could  boast  complexions — 
not  blondes,  certainly,  but  —  of  Anglo  -  American 
wrhiteness.  Yet,  all  these  girls  had  in  their  blood  the 
fatal  taint  of  Afric's  sun ;  though,  in  some,  it  was 
diluted,  by  admixture,  to  an  infinitesimal  point,  that 
required  the  nicest  eye  to  detect  it — if,  indeed,  it  could 
be  detected  at  all. 

Around  the  room,  ranged  on  divans,  in  solemn 
state,  watchful  as  owls,  and  wrinkled  as  Hecate,  sat 
the  mothers  of  these  Odalisques ;  vigilant  she-dragons, 


DOWAGEK-QUADKOONS.  209 

with  Argus-eyes,  keeping  sentinel-watch  over  their 
daughters'  charms.  After  all,  they  were  only  a  bur 
lesque  on  the  dowagers  and  chaperones  at  Almack's, 
and  other  high-life  subscription-balls ;  where  the  same 
watchfulness,  and  the  same  wrinkles,  (both  more  art 
fully  veiled  and  concealed ;  the  one  by  smiles  and 
affability,  the  other  by  Wane  and  rouge!)  may  be 
observed,  directed  to  the  same  game,  with  this  nuance 
of  difference  :  that  in  one  case,  the  marriage  of  her 
daughter  to  a  desirable  parti  is  the  dowager-countess's 
end  and  aim ;  while,  in  the  other,  the  l>ien-place-ing 
of  her  girl  in  love's  soft  bondage  with  a  rich  protec 
tor — the  graver  bonds  of  matrimony  not  being  of 
force,  in  this  case — is  the  mark  of  the  dowager-Quad 
roon  !  An  establishment  for  her  child  is  the  object  of 
both.  And  it  amused  me  not  a  little  to  watch  the 
keen,  restless  eyes  of  each  dingy  old  beldame  follow 
ing  the  motions  of  her  charge  ;  especially  on  each 
change  of  partner ;  anxious  and  fidgetty  lest  she  should 
commit  herself  with  a  mauvais  parti, — some  good 
fellow  not  quite  up  to  her  figure,  in  dollars.  Exactly 
as  one  has  seen  an  old  countess  sitting  on  thorns,  and 
throwing  out  signals  of  distress  and  displeasure,  when 
her  protegee,  the  Lady  Honoria,  has  been  so  indis 
creet  as  to  dance  twice  with  a  younger  son,  a  dashing, 
penniless  captain  in  the  guards  !  Ha !  ha  !  ha !  Poor 
human  nature !  black  or  white,  'tis  much  the  same, 
with  only  a  shade  or  two  of  difference.  The  dow 
ager-duchess  bends  all  her  arts  against  a  mes-alliance-^ 
as  the  law  directs  ;  the  dowager-Quadroon  arrays  her 
force  against  a  mauvais  parti — as  the  law  permits. 
Voild  la  difference!  Life,  in  its  extremes,  is  very 


210  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

much  alike  when  its  littlenesses  are  uncovered,  and 
its  motives  unveiled.  Civilization  only  throws  an 
elegant  mantle  over  the  naked  limbs  to  hide  the 
quivering  of  the  muscles,  and  the  passionate  throb- 
bings  of  the  heart ! 

Vogue  la  galere  ! 

ST.  CHARLES  THEATRE,  1843.  The  new  St.  Charles 
Theatre  was  completed  in  an  incredibly  short  time, 
(sixty  working  days,  I  believe,  altogether)  and  I  was 
invited  by  Messrs.  Ludlow  and  Smith,  to  appear  there 
in  the  second  week  of  its  opening.  I  accepted,  and 
commenced  in  Hamlet,  on  9th  February,  1843,  playing 
Macbeth,  and  my  usual  list,  and  winding  up,  to  the 
best  house  of  the  season,  so  far,  with  Claude  Melnotte 
and  Rob  Roy,  for  my  benefit. 

The  following  brief  notice,  from  the  "  Picayune," 
may  show  what  they  thought  of  me  in  New  Orleans  : 

VANDENHOFF. — New  St.  Charles. — Young  Vandenhoff  made 
his  first  appearance  last  evening,  as  Hamlet,  before  one  of  the 
fullest  and  most  fashionable  houses  of  the  season,  and  was  warmly 
received  and  enthusiastically  applauded  throughout  the  perform 
ance.  His  readings  are  exquisitely  given,  evincing  much  study 
as  well  as  scholarship ;  his  enunciation  and  gesticulation  are  good, 
and  his  general  conception  of  the  difficult  character  he  sustained, 
gave  full  evidence  that  he  had  bestowed  upon  it  much  careful 
study,  and  that  he  well  understands  the  wild  yet  subtle  humors 
of  the  Dane.  If  we  can  find  fault  at  all,  it  is  with  an  excess  of 
method  in  his  attitude  and  action,  and  the  too  violent  rendering 
of  a  few  passages  where  a  subdued  manner  would  have  been  more 
effective.  These  faults  were  trivial,  however,  when  placed  in  op 
position  to  the  general  beauties  of  his  performance,  and  we  can 
not  but  predict  for  Mr.  Vandenhoff  a  highly  creditable,  and  even 
brilliant  career  upon  our  boards. 


ME.    HACKETT.  211 

But  here,  as  well  as  in  the  North,  the  "  bad  times  " 
most  injuriously  affected  the  Theatre.  Mr.  HACKETT 
played  alternate  nights  with  me,  to  indifferent  houses ; 
and  as  his  comedies  and  farces  did  not  draw,  he  be 
took  himself  to  Tragedy  and  Kichard  III !  This,  I 
need  not  say,  did  not  mend  the  matter.  Strange, 
that  so  excellent  an  actor  in  certain  character-parts, 
eccentric  and  comic,  should  have  deceived  himself 
into  the  belief  that  he  could  shine  in  tragedy,  for 
which  he  has  not,  nor  ever  had,  any  qualification,  ex 
cept  good  sense  and  intelligence.  When  I  say  that 
his  Kentuckian  never  ceases  to  amuse  me  by  its 
hearty,  audacious  oddities ;  that  I  consider  his  Solo 
mon  Swap  the  most  natural  and  unexaggerated 
Yankee  I  ever  saw  upon  the  stage  ;  that  I  have  alter 
nately  smiled  and  wept  at  his  Rip  Yan  "Winkle,  one 
of  the  most  artistic  and  finished  performances  that 
the  American  Theatre  ever  produced, — he  will,  I 
•know,  not  take  it  ill,  that  I  could  not  discover  the 
merit,  or  the  design,  if  it  had  any,  of  his  Kichard  III. 
An  actor  may  have  great  intelligence  ;  a  perfect  un 
derstanding,  and  even  feeling  of  his  author,  and  yet 
fall  very  far  short  in  the  execution,  even  of  his  own 
conception.  The  art  and  the  power  that  can  touch 
and  delight  us  in  the  simple  pathos  of  Rip  Yan  Win 
kle  and  Monsieur  Mallet,  may  be  feeble  to  cope  with 
the  frenzy  of  Lear ;  and  will  crack  and  fall  to  pieces, 
in  the  vain  attempt  to  master  and  to  give  expression 
to  the  complicated  agony  of  his  pride,  his  affection, 
and  his  rage  ;  the  ruin  of  down-trodden  royalty,  and 
the  wreck  of  a  confiding  old  father's  heart.  These 
are  the  highest  triumphs  of  the  tragic  power  :  it  is 


212  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

not  wonderful  that  Mr.  Hackett,  excellent  comedian 
as  lie  is,  should  fail  to  achieve  them. 


I  must  mention  an  incident  which  interrupted  the 
Lady  of  Lyons,  for  a  few  moments,  on  my  benefit 
night.  Mrs.  FAKKEN,  then  the  regular  actress  of  the 
St.  Charles  Theatre,  was  the  Pauline ;  and  in  the 
scene  in  the  cottage  where, — on  Beauseant's  producing 
a  pistol,  she  falls  fainting  into  Claude's  arms, — as  I 
carried  the  lady  up  the  stage,  to  place  her  in  a  chair, 
a  voice  from  the  Pit  cried  out,  in  a  very  excited  tone, 

"  Kiss  her !  by ,  kiss  her !  " 

I  felt  my  cheek  tingle  with  indignation ;  and  an  in 
voluntary  shrinking  of  Pauline,  on  my  arm,  told  me 
that  she  felt  the  affront,  too.  I  placed  her  calmly  on 
the  chair ;  turned,  walked  slowly  down  to  the  foot 
lights,  and  stood  there  in  silence,  casting  my  eye 
round  the  foremost  seats  of  the  parquet,  with  a  view 
to  detect  the  offender.  The  audience  was  still  as 
death,  for  about  half  a  minute  ;  then,  suddenly,  like  a 
flash  of  lightning,  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  them  ;  I 
beheld  a  man  seized,  raised  off  his  feet,  and  literally 
passed  through  the  air,  from  hand  to  hand,  across  the 
parquet,  till  he  was  outside  the  door,  before  he  could 
know  whither  he  was  going !  The  whole  was  the 
work  of  about  ten  seconds  ;  and,  after  a  hearty  cheer, 
I  went  on  with  the  text.  The  words  which  followed, 

"  There  \  we  are  strangers  now," — 
spoken  by   Claude  with  reference  to  his  position 


A    PROCLAMATION.  213 

thenceforth  with  Pauline,  the  house  immediately  ap 
plied  to  the  stranger  whom  they  had  ejected,  and 
greeted  them  with  the  most  uproarious  laughter,  and 
another  cheer ! 

Poor  fellow,  I  dare  say  he  meant  no  harm  ;  his 
feelings  overcame  him ;  but  then,  you  know,  we 
must  regulate  our  feelings  ;  or  at  least,  the  inoppor 
tune  expression  of  them ! 


I  next  played  six  nights  at  Mobile,  of  which  I 
need  only  remark  that  the  company  was  shockingly 
bad ;  and  the  manager  having  got  into  a  snarl  with 
the  public  by  discharging  a  popular  favorite,  Mrs. 
Stuart,  I  had  to  suffer  the  penalty  of  his  obstinacy ; 
there  being  a  very  general  league  of  absence  from  the 
theatre  till  she  should  be  restored. 

I  then  returned  to  New  Orleans,  and  played  a 
very  satisfactory  engagement  of  five  nights  at  the 
New  American  Theatre,  under  a  new  management, 
producing,  for  my  benefit,  for  the  first  time,  the  play 
of"  Love's  Sacrifice,"  which  had  recently  been  brought 
out  for  my  father  and  sister,  at  Co  vent  Garden  Theatre. 

Previous  to  my  appearance  at  this  theatre,  a  low 
attempt  was  made  to  get  up  a  row  against  me  on  my 
opening  night.  It  scarcely  deserves  to  be  mentioned  ; 
for  it  was  defeated  by  the  coolness  and  contempt  with 
which  I  treated  it  in  anticipation.  An  insolent  car 
penter  of  the  theatre  had  refused  me  admittance  at 
the  stage  door,  although  my  name  was  underlined  in 
the  bills,  and  I  had  come  for  the  purpose  of  speaking 
with  the  manager.  I  did  not  bandy  words  with  him, 


214  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

as  I  saw  his  insolence  was  planned  ;  but  pushed  him 
aside,  and  walked  in,  desiring  him  to  "  keep  his  hands 
off  me,  or  I  would  have  him  taught  manners."  He 
muttered  some  threat,  to  which  I  gave  no  heed,  but 
passed  on,  had  my  interview  with  the  manager,  and 
left  the  theatre,  and  thought  no  more  about  the  fellow. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday  ;  and,  after  church-time, 
several  friends  came  to  me  to  offer  their  services 
against  the  row  which  was  to  take  place  on  my  ap 
pearance  to-morrow  night. 

"  Eow  !  "  I  exclaimed  :  "  what  about?  " 

"What  about?"  was  the  reply;  "Don't  you 
know  ?  haven't  you  seen  ? " 

With  that,  each  produced  a  small,  mean-looking 
scrap  of  paper,  three  inches  by  four,  on  which  was 
printed  the  following  "  elegant  compilation."  I  give 
it,  with  all  its  false  spellings  and  Malapr  op-isms,  ex 
actly  as  it  stood : 


G.  YANDEKEOFF. 

GEORGE  VANDENHOFF ! ! !  This  individual,  who  is  sub 
sisting  on  the  generous  disposition  of  the  American  people,  has, 
in  an  unguarded  moment,  thrown  off  his  disguise,  and  stands  be 
fore  them  in  all  his  naked  deformity — denouncing  them  as  "  com 
mon  people,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  learn  them  manners — 
contaminating  him  with  their  tuch"  &c.  &c. 

The  subject  of  a  King,  who,  according  to  the  laws  of  his  own 
country,  is  a  vagabond,  a  solicitor  of  charity ;  and  like  the  reptile, 
would  bite  the  hand  that  warmed  him  into  existence.  Can  Amer- 
cans  sit  quietly  down  and  hear  themselves  stigmatized  by  a  foreign 
adventurer,  while  feeding  him  with  generous  munificence  ?  No  5 
but  show  this  famious  aristocratical  hypocrite,  that  we  appreciate 
his  noble  feelings  and  will  take  occasion  to  show  it  the  first  op 
portunity. 


A   DEPUTATION.  215 

Some  thousands  of  this  manifesto,  it  appears,  had 
been  distributed ;  and  I  was  advised  to  prepare  my 
self  for  a  storm.  I  smiled,  and  said,  "  Then,  let's  take 
a  drink."  I  knew  this  was  the  usual  Southern  prep 
aration  for  everything. 

The  next  day,  I  received  a  call  from  the  British 
Consul,  with  the  offer  of  assistance,  if  I  required  it. 
I  assured  him  it  was  needless,  and  that  I  had  not  the 
slightest  apprehension  of  anything.  In  the  after 
noon,  a  deputation  of  butchers,  from  Lafayette,  was 
announced,  as  having  called  to  see  me  at  the  hotel.  I 
received  them,  like  a  Secretary  of  State  ;  and,  having 
first  invited  them  to  "  take  a  drink  all  round  "  (pour 
applanir  la  route),  requested  to  know  their  pleasure. 

They  had  called  on  me  to  learn  the  truth  of  the 
matter  between  me  and  that  proclamation-izing 
Carpenter,  with  a  view  to  their  action  in  the  matter, 
pro  or  con.  I  told  it.  They  expressed  themselves 
perfectly  satisfied :  "  they  should  be  thar,  and  they'd 
jest  like  to  see  the  first  feller  move  a  finger." 

Well,  night  came  :  "  Othello  "  was  the  play ;  the 
house  was  well  filled — all  men  ;  not  a  bonnet  to  be 
seen  ;  this  looked  ominous.  My  friends  of  the  depu 
tation  and  their  party,  were  thar,  in  omnibus  loads.  I 
had  to  go  on  in  the  first  scene,  as  lago ;  and  I  re 
quested  the  gentleman  who  had  to  accompany  me  as 
Boderigo,  if  he  perceived  any  eggs  or  harder  missiles 
flying,  not  to  wait,  but  to  take  the  first  shot  for  his 
exit-cue. 

Up  rose  the  curtain  ;  on  we  went.  There  was  a 
silence.  I  walked  forward  to  the  footlights,  took  off 
my  hat,  looked  round  the  house  with  an  enquiring 


216  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

eye,  as  much  as  to  say — "  If  any  one  has  any  thing 
to  say  against  your  humble  servant,  now  is  his  time." 
Not  a  word,  not  a  hiss,  not  a  sound.  I  smiled,  made 
a  bow  to  the  audience,  put  on  my  hat,  and  motioned 
with  my  hand  to  Roderigo  to  begin  the  scene.  Then 
out  burst  the  public  voice,  in  a  hearty  cheer,  in  which, 
I  fancy,  my  Lafayette  volunteers  were  not  slow.  The 
play  went  on  without  disturbance  ;  I  received  my  due 
meed  of  applause  ;  was  called  out,  at  the  end,  enthu 
siastically  ;  and  had  a  tremendous  house  for  my  bene 
fit,  four  nights  after.  The  manager  wished  to  dis 
charge  the  Carpenter ;  but,  at  my  earnest  request, 
(the  rascal  had  a  family,)  he  was  retained. 


Passing  through  Richmond,  Va.,  on  my  way  to 
New  York,  I  encountered  Mr.  Hackett  there  ;  and  we 
played  one  night  together  there :  our  half  share  of  the 
gross  proceeds  amounted  to  $15  each ;  so  that  there 
were  $60  in  the  house.  Hard  times,  those ! 

I  have  since  played,  and  read,  too,  in  Richmond, 
myself,  to  very  fine  houses  ;  and  have  received  there 
the  kindest  attentions,  which  I  am  delighted  to  ac 
knowledge. 

BALTIMORE,  April,  1843. — Played  six  nights  at  the 
Holiday  Street  Theatre,  with  only  tolerable  receipts. 
Theatricals  were  bad  everywhere ;  but  I  passed  an 
agreeable  week,  made  some  delightful  acquaintances, 
and  laid  the  foundation-stone  of  that  favor  and  popu 
larity  which  I  have  ever  since  enjoyed  in  that  elegant 
and  hospitable  city.  Being  called  on  for  an  auto 
graph, — it  is  singular,  the  rage  some  people  have  for 


MARYLAND — FAIRYLAND  ?  217 

autographs, — (I  estimate  their  value  in  a  business  view 
only,  as  they  may  be  good  or  bad  at  the  foot  of  a 
cheque,)  I  wrote : 

I've  lived  here  a  week  on  the  daintiest  fare, 

In  this  loveliest  city  of  Maryland ; 
"Where  the  men  are  so  frank,  and  the  women  so  fair, 

That  I  vow  I've  been  dwelling  in  fairy-land! 

Passing  through  Philadelphia,  played  my  second 
engagement,  five  nights,  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre, 
and  one  night  for  Marshall's  (manager)  benefit ;  on 
which  occasion  Charlotte  Cushman.  played  Romeo,  for 
the  first  time,  I  believe :  I  was  the  Mercutio.  I  lent 
her  a  hat,  cloak,  and  sword,  for  the  second  dress,  and 
believe  I  may  take  credit  for  having  given  her  some 
useful  fencing  hints  for  the  killing  of  Tybalt  and 
Paris,  which  she  executes  in  such  masculine  and  ef 
fective  style  :  the  only  good  points  in  this  hybrid  per 
formance  of  hers.  She  looks  neither  man  nor  woman 
in  the  part, — or  both ;  and  her  passion  is  equally 
epicene  in  form.  Whatever  her  talents  in  other  parts, 
I  never  yet  heard  any  human  being,  that  had  seen  her 
Romeo,  who  did  not  speak  of  it  with  a  painful  expres 
sion  of  countenance,  "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger." 

Romeo  requires  a  man,  to  feel  his  passion,  and  to 
express  his  despair.  A  woman,  in  attempting  it, 
"  unsexes  "  herself  to  no  purpose,  except  to  destroy  all 
interest  in  the  play,  and  all  sympathy  for  the  ill-fated 
pair  :  she  denaturalises  the  situations ;  and  sets  up  a 
monstrous  anomaly,  in  place  of  a  consistent  picture  ol 
ill-starred  passion  and  martyr-love,  faithful  to  death. 
There  should  be  a  law  against  such  perversions  :  they 
10 


218  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

are  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors  against  truth,  taste, 
and  aesthetic  principles  of  art,  as  well  as  offences 
against  propriety,  and  desecrations  of  Shakspere.  In 
his  time  women  did  not  appear  on  the  stage  at  all ; 
now,  they  usurp  men's  parts,  and  "push  us  from  our 
stools." 

NEW  YOKK. — Early  in  May,  I  played  my  second  en 
gagement  at  the  Park  Theatre,  in  a  series  of  comedies, 
assisted  by  Mrs.  Brougham  :  Benedick  (twice),  Charles 
Surface,  Jacques,  and  Hanger,  in  the  "  Suspicious 
Husband."  Theatricals  were  still  down  in  New  York, 
and  the  business  was  shy. 

Immediately  following  this,  I  accepted  a  five  nights' 
engagement  at  Pelby's  National  Theatre,  Boston — he 
paying  me  a  certainty  of  $50  per  night :  and  the  en 
gagement  was  renewed  the  week  after,  with  the  addi 
tion  of  the  name  of  Mr.  (Count)  Tasistro  to  the  bill, 
as  lago,  Joseph  Surface,  Cassius,  &c. 

And  with  this  ended  my  first  season  (1842-'3),  in 
the  United  States  :  probably  one  of  the  worst  theatri 
cal  seasons  ever  known.  Certainly  I  have  never  seen 
the  Drama  at  so  low  an  ebb  since,  not  even  in  the 
great  crisis  of  '57.  When  I  reviewed  my  accounts,  I 
found  that  I  had  netted  about  the  same  amount  as 
the  salary  offered  me  by  Mr.  Kemble,  for  Covent 
Garden  Theatre,  and  the  receipts  of  country  engage 
ments,  in  England,  during  vacation,  would  have 
amounted  to.  Still,  I  had  made  friends  on  this  side 
of  the  water,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  remain  in 
this  country  for  the  coming  season,  perhaps  to  make 
it  my  permanent  home — which,  indeed,  it  now  is. 

For  what  is  home,  but  where  the  heart  is  ? 

"Domus  et  placens  uxor," — 


HOME.  219 

a  house  and  pleasing  wife  are  the  duality  of  possession 
that  constitute  the  perfect  idea  of  home  ;  the  two  facts 
that  grapple  one  to  a  soil  with  surest  anchorage. 
Now,  as  I  have  not  only  acquired  both  these,  here ;  but 
have  raised  a  young  offshoot,  who  drew  his  first  breath 
beneath  the  starry  banner  of  the  Republic,  my  domi 
cile  is,  I  think,  sufficiently  well  assured. 


220  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


XIV. 

MISCELLANEOUS  LEAVES— United  States,  1848  to  1852-'3— Preliminary— Mr.  MA- 
CBEADY— My  First  Meeting  with  him— Performances  with  him— His  Character 
istics— L'etat  c'est  inoi !— The  Stage,  that's  I  '.—Incidents— Henry  IV.— "Werner 
— Argumentum  ad  hominem — Astor  Place  Opera  House — Eestorations — Shak- 
speare— Mutilation  of  School  for  Scandal—  Resume— His  Eetirement— Valeat  !— 
Mr.  BOOTH— Scene  with  him  in  Julius  Caesar,  at  the  Park  Theatre— Mr.  SIMP 
SON,  the  Manager— KINO  JOHN,  with  the  KEANS  at  the  Park— Broadway 
Theatre — J.  E.  ANDERSON — Sophocles*  ANTIGONE,  with  Mendelssohn's  Music,  at 
Palmo's  Opera  House — Grotesque  Appearance  of  the  Chorus  of  Greek  Sages — 
Mrs.  C.  N.  SINCLAIE  (Mrs.  Forrest)— Her  Debut— Engagements  with  her,  and 
Accounts — Eesult. 

IN  the  following  miscellaneous  leaves,  I  preserve  no 
order  of  date  or  arrangement ;  but  merely  give  such 
sketches  and  reminiscences  as  occur  in  my  note-book, 
from  1843  to  1852-'3  :  during  which  period  I  resided 
principally  in  ISTew  York,  making  frequent  trips  across 
the  Atlantic,  without  any  professional  object,  and 
playing  only  occasional  engagements  in  the  principal 
cities  of  the  United  States.  During  the  intervals  of 
these  engagements,  I  devoted  a  portion  of  my  time  to 
public  Readings  of  Shakspere,  Sheridan,  and  the 
Poets.  Already  perceiving  that  this  style  of  literary 
entertainment  would  take  a  great  hold  of  the  public 
mind,  I  began  to  give  it  conscientious  study  and  ear 
nest  attention,  as  a  means  to  enable  me  to  quit  the 
stage. 


MB.    MACBEADY.  221 

I  have  happily  been  enabled  to  carry  out  my  in 
tentions  ;  and,  in  the  calmer  and  more  congenial  arena 
of  the  Lecture-hall,  I  have  reaped  a  success  which  en 
tirely  satisfies  my  ambition,  and  leaves  me  leisure  to 
gratify  my  love  of  books  and  literary  pursuits. 

ME.  MACKEADY. 

My  first  professional  meeting  with  Mr.  Macready 
was  in  Philadelphia,  in  October,  1843.  I  had  been 
playing  for  three  weeks  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre  ; 
and  was  then  engaged  to  appear  with  "  the  eminent " 
Tragedian,  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  which  was 
opened  expressly  for  his  performances.  Othello, 
"Werner,  Richelieu,  with  repetitions,  carried  us  through 
the  fortnight.  I  played  Othello,  Ulric,  De  Mau- 
prat. 

The  two  points  that  struck  me  most,  as  character 
istic  of  this  leader  of  the  English  Stage,  were  his  in 
tense  devotion  10  the  work  of  his  profession,  as  a  busi 
ness,  and  his  equally  intense  egoism  /  which  imperi 
ously  subjected,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  every  thing  and 
every  body,  to  the  sole  purpose  of  making  himself  the 
one  mark  for  all  eyes  to  look  at,  the  one  voice  for  all 
ears  to  listen  to,  the  one  name  for  all  mouths  to  repeat 
and  eulogize.  It  was  Part  de  se  faire  val-oir,  sur  la 
scene,  pushed  to  its  highest  point. 

To  attain  this  sublime  of  self-magnifying,  author 
and  actor  were  to  be  sacrificed ;  or,  at  least,  diluted 
and  let  down,  where  their  "  effects  " — a  word  he  was 
very  fond  of — could  in  any  way  pale  his  own  lustre. 
Authors  were  lopped  and  pared  down  in  speeches  that 


222  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

did  not  belong  to  Mm  •  and  actors  were  expected,  and, 
as  far  as  in  them  lay,  by  his  directions,  were  compelled 
to  lose  all  thought  of  giving  prominence  to  their  own 
parts,  when  he  was  on  the  stage.  They  were,  in  the 
sight  of  his  tyrannical  self-aggrandizement,  mere  scaf 
foldings  to  support  his  artistic  designs ;  mere  machines 
to  aid  the  working-out  of  his  conceptions  ;  lay  figures 
for  his  pictures,  his  groupings,  his  tableaux  vivants. 
As  for  any  thing  they  might  have  to  say,  as  'far  as  it 
was  necessary  to  be  said,  as  a  cue  for  his  speech,  or 
for  the  carrying  out  or  explaining  the  plot  in  which  he 
was  concerned,  let  them  say  it ;  and  say  it  in  such  a 
manner  as  will  make  best  for  his  reply ;  otherwise, 
he  would  prefer  them  to  be  silent.  He  was  a  perfect 
verification  of  that  description  given  by  a  spirituel 
French  author  of  the  present  day,  and  applied  by 
him  to  a  certain  notorious  character  occupying  public 
attention  at  the  time  he  wrote  it : 

"  Semblable  a  ces  grands  acteurs,  qui  n'aiment  pas  les  pieces 

d'ensemble,  et  voudraient  jouer  un  monologue  en  cinq  actes, 

n'avait  pas  1'air  de  soupconner  1'existence  de  ses  complices,  assis 
a  cote"  de  lui ;  il  se  tenait  a  distance ;  il  s'isolait ;  il  voulait  6tre 
le  centre  a  tons  les  regards  et  ne  partager  sa  gloire  avec  aucun 
subalterne." 

"Whatever  was  his  part  for  the  night,  whether  he 
was  Othello  or  lago,  Brutus  or  Cassius,  Posthumus  or 
lachimo,  that  part  must  be  the  feature  of  the  play : 
and  this  was  to  be  effected  not  by  his  own  towering 
and  surpassing  excellence  in  the  character,  but  by 
such  an  arrangement  of  the  scene,  and  such  a  position 
of  every  other  person  on  the  stage,  as  must  make  all 


AUTOCRACY   OP   THE    STAGE.  223 

others  subordinate,  and  put  him  on  a  pedestal,  as  it 
were,  always  the  main  figure  in  the  group,  the  most 
prominent  object  in  the  action. 

Thus,  when  he  played  Othello,  lago  was  to  be  no 
where  !  Othello  was  to  be  the  sole  consideration :  the 
sole  character  to  be  evolved,  the  all-engrossing  object 
to  the  eye  and  heart  of  the  audience.  lago  was  a 
mere  stoker,  whose  business  it  was  to  supply  Othello's 
passion  with  fuel,  and  keep  up  his  high-pressure. 

The  next  night,  perhaps,  he  took  lago ;  and  lo ! 
presto  !  every  thing  was  changed.  Othello  was  to  be 
come  a  mere  puppet  for  lago  to  play  with ;  a  pipe  for 
lago's  master-skill  to  "  sound  from  its  lowest  note  to 
the  top  of  its  compass."  lago's  intellect,  his  fiendish 
subtlety,  his  specious,  calculating  malignity,  were  to 
be  the  sole  features  of  the  play.  Othello  was  to  be  a 
mere  fly,  a  large  blue-bottle,  struggling  in  the  meshes 
of  the  Italian  spider.  Even  the  wri things  and  con 
vulsions  of  the  victim  were  controlled  and  restrained 
with  arachnian  ingenuity,  by  invisible  ligaments; 
lest  some  natural  movement,  or  throb  of  agony,  might 
rudely  make  a  breach  in  the  continuity,  or  destroy  the 
artistic  harmony  of  the  elaborately- wrought  web  ! 

Thus,  this  great  work,  this  terrible  duel  between 
brain  and  heart,  the  conflict  of  intellectual  subtlety 
with  all-triumphant  love ;  this  machiavellian  victory 
of  the  base  over  the  noble,  in  which  Shakspere  has 
divided  his  wonderful  power  of  characterization  on 
the  emotional  and  passionate,  yet  confiding  nature  of 
the  Moor ;  his  tenderness,  his  magnanimity,  his  terri 
ble  revenge,  roused  like  a  tiger  to  glut  itself  with  car 
nage  :  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  profound,  the  dev- 


224  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ilish  philosophy  of  lago,  a  compound  of  self-love, 
envy,  and  malice,  tracking  their  victim  with  the  pa 
tient,  steadfast,  unwearied  stanchness  of  a  blood 
hound  ;  this  great  work  of  genius  and  of  the  highest 
art  combined,  was  to  be,  in  either  case,  a  one-sided 
picture,  "  but  half  made-up,"  the  interest  varying  and 
changing  to  that  half  in  wrhich  Macready  was  domi 
nant  for  the  night,  and  on  which  alone  light  was  to  be 
thrown.  If  the  Othello-side  was  in  the  ascendant, 
lago  stood  all  night  with  his  back  to  the  audience ; 
his  face  unseen ;  his  expression  lost,  sometimes  even 
his  words  unheard.  If  the  lago-side  was  at  the  top, 
he  occupied  the  centre  of  the  stage,  all  the  evening ; 
while  Othello  gave  the  audience  a  rear- view,  and 
played  lacquey  to  his  "  ancient !  "  This  "  effect  de 
fective  "  was  brought  about  in  both  cases,  by  "  the 
eminent's  "  arbitrary  direction  of  the  stage. 

As  to  his  reverence  for  the  author,  Mr.  Macready 
did  not  scruple  to  cut  out  a  speech,  or  portion  of  a 
speech,  however  beautiful,  in  the  part  of  another  actor, 
if  the  retaining  it  would  give  that  actor — especially  a 
favorite  actor — too  much  hold  of  the  scene,  too  much 
apparent  importance  ;  or  would  keep  "  the  eminent," 
in  the  attitude  of  a  listener  too  long ;  in  the  view  of  his 
own  overweening  egoism.  Macready,  in  fact,  paro 
died  the  expression  of  Louis  XIY.,  put  by  Bulwer 
into  the  mouth  of  Richelieu,  Eetat  Jest  moi  /  the 
"autocratic"  manager  and  actor  thought,  and  said  in 
practice, 

"The  stage— that's  I!" 
He  was  to  be  the 'Alpha  and  Omega;  the  embodi- 


DRAMATIC   AUTOCRACY.  225 

ment  and  living  impersonation  of  the  Aristotelian 
theory  of  epic  perfection  ;  he  was  to  be*  the  beginning , 
the  middle,  and  the  end  of  every  play. 

Let  me  verify  what  I  have  said  as  to  his  loppings 
and  parings  of  an  author,  Shakspere  not  excepted, 
by  an  example  or  two  within  my  own  experience. 

He  was  very  fond  of  playing  the  celebrated  death- 
scene  of  the  king,  in  the  second  part  of  Henry  IV.,  for 
his  benefit.  At  New  Orleans,  in  1849,  I  played  the 
Prince  for  him  in  this  scene,  and  was  really  desirous 
to  give  him  every  assistance  in  my  power,  not  involv 
ing  a  positive  surrender  of  my  own  common-sense, 
and  an  utter  sacrifice  of  the  part  I  was  to  fill.  All 
went  on  smoothly  enough,  till  I  came  to  the  Prince's 
beautiful  justification  of  the  act  of  taking  the  crown 
from — as  he  thought — his  dead  father's  head.  I 
spoke  the  text  as  Shakspere  wrote  it : — 

Coming  to  look  on  you,  thinking  you  dead, 

(And  dead  almost,  my  liege,  to  think  you  were,) 

I  spake  unto  the  crown  as  having  sense, 

And  thus  upbraided  it : — "  The  care  on  thee  depending, 

Hath  fed  upon  the  body  of  my  father  ; 

Therefore,  thou,  best  of  gold,  art  worst  of  gold  : 

[Other,  less  fine  in  carat,  is  more  precious 

Preserving  life  in  med1  cine  potable  : 

But  thou,  most  fine,  most  honored,  most  renowrfd, 

East  eat  thy  bearer  up.}    Thus,  my  most  royal  liege, 

Accusing  it,  I  put  it  on  my  head,"  &c. 

Now  the  four  characteristic   lines    in   italics   be 
tween   brackets, — illustrative   of    the   virtues   super- 
stitiously  ascribed  in  an  early  age  to  the  aurutn  po~ 
tabile  or  potable  gold, — Mr.  Macready  insisted  on  cut- 
10* 


226  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ting  out,  because  they  added  to  the  length  of  the 
speech.  I  insisted  on  retaining  them,  for  three  reasons : 
first,  because  Shakspere  wrote  them,  and  intended  them 
to  be  delivered ;  second,  because  they  were  appro 
priate  to  the  period  and  the  speaker ;  third,  because 
they  were  familiar  to  readers,  and  their  omission 
might  be  attributed  either  to  my  ignorance  of,  or  my 
want  of  appreciation  of  the  text.  As  I  was  not  one  of 
those  who  felt  it  necessary  to  flatter  "  the  eminent " 
by  blind  submission,  the  text  was  saved  from  mu 
tilation,  for  that  night. 

Again,  at  the  Chestnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadel 
phia,  in  Byron's  Werner, — a  character  which  Ma- 
cready  played  to  perfection,  leaving  nothing  to  be 
desired, — Werner,  speaking  of  the  favor  shown  to 
Ulric,  by  his  enemy  Stralenheim,  says  : 

"  'Tis  but  a  snare  he  winds  about  us  both, 
To  swoop  the  sire  and  son  at  once ; " 

to  which  Ulric,  with  the  impetuous  confidence  of 
youth,  replies, 

"  I  cannot 

Pause  in  each  petty  fear,  and  stumble  at 
The  doubts  that  rise  like  briars  in  our  path, 
[But  must  IreaTc  through  them,  as  an  unarmed  carle 
Would,  though  with  naked  limits,  were  the  wolf  rustling 
In  the  same  thicket  where  he  hewed  for  'bread."'] 

Surely,  the  italicised  lines  in  brackets,  apt,  nervous, 
presenting  a  happy  figure,  forcibly  illustrating  the 
onward  determination  of  youth,  deserved  to  be  spoken. 
Mr.  Macready  thought  otherwise. 


ARGUMENTUM   AD    HOMINEM.  227 

"  I've  cut  those  lines  out,"  he  said,  at  rehearsal. 

"  But,"  I  replied,  "  as  they  occur  in  my  part,  I 
have  restored  them." 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  ornit  them." 

"Why?  "I  inquired. 

"  I  feel  they're  useless ;  they  burthen  the  text !  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  said,  "  as  it  is  /who  have  to  speak 
them,  if  I  disagree  with  you.  I  think  them  particu 
larly  apt,  and  characteristic." 

"  Besides,"  he  continued,  "  they  lengthen  the  scene, 
and  I  wish  them  out." 

"Lewis,"  I  said  to  the  prompter,  "will  you  be 
good  enough  to  time  my  speaking  of  those  three  lines." 

"  O,"  said  he,  hastily,  "  that's  too  much !  Speak 
them,  speak  them,  if  you  will :  but  they're  quite  super 
fluous." 

Of  course  I  did  speak  them. 

These  are  trifles,  but  they  show  the  man  and  his 
mind ;  had  these  lines  occurred  in  any  part  of  his, 
they  would  not  have  been  cut. 

Thus,  again,  in  this  very  rehearsal  of  "Werner,  after 
Gabor's  relation  of  the  murder  by  Ulric,  when  the 
Hungarian  has  retired  into  the  turret,  to  await  Wer 
ner's  decision,  and  Ulric,  after  an  angry  scene  with 
his  father,  says,  before  he  leaves  him : 

"  Keep  your  own  secret,  keep  a  steady  eye, 
Stir  not,  and  speak  not ; — leave  the  rest  to  me  ! 
We  must  have  no  third  babblers  thrust  between  us  :  " — 

implying  of  course  that  Gabor's  mouth  must  be 
stopped  as  Stralenheim's  had  been ;  Mr.  Macready 
requested  me  to  go  up  the  stage,  and  speak  these 


228  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

words  from  the  extreme  back  of  it,  to  him,  as  he  stood 
in  the  very  front  of  the  footlights,  with  a  face  of  an 
guish, — the  picture  for  the  eye  to  rest  on. 

"  O  no,"  I  said,  "  I  must  whisper  those  words  in 
your  ear,  surely ;  not  call  them  ont  loud  :  that  would 
be  to  defeat  their  very  object,  by  risking  their  being 
overheard." 

"  But,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  always  had  it  done  so, 
and  I  wish  you  to  do  it  in  that  manner." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  it's  an  inconsistency.  Shall  I,  in  the 
great  Hall  of  the  Castle,  outside  of  which  are  doubt 
less  sentries,  pages  in  waiting,  courtiers  and  attend 
ants  passing  and  repassing, — shall  I  cry  out  aloud  to 
you  ;  '  this  is  a  terrible  secret  which  this  man  has  re 
vealed ;  it  involves  the  honor  and  safety  of  our  house  ; 
but  keep  still ;  leave  it  to  me,  and  Til  silence  the  fel 
low's  lips  forever  ! '< — that  seems  to  me  not  at  all  vrai- 
sembldble" 

"  Then  you  refuse  to  do  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  could  not  do  it,"  I  said  ;  "  it  is  too  inconsistent." 

"  Then,"  said  he,  angrily,  "  you  are  the  first  Ulric 
who  ever  refused  me  on  this  point." 

I  was  somewhat  touched  by  this  artful  reproach, 
and  I  replied : 

"  Mr.  Macready,  if  you  will  give  me  your  honor, 
that  if  you  were  playing  Ulric,  you  would  act  the 
scene  in  the  way  you  direct  me  to  do,  I'll  yield 
at  once." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  with  a  peculiar  inflection  of  voice, 
"  thafs  quite  a  different  thing  !  " 

I  thought  so. 

On  his  second  visit  to  this  country,  in  1848, 1  played 


MACREADY'S  BRUTUS.  229 

with  him  at  the  Astor  Place  Opera  House,  New 
York,  (his  first  engagement,)  Othello,  Edgar  (K.  Lear), 
and  other  parts.  The  following  is  the  Herald's  notice 
of  our  joint  appearance  in  Julius  Caesar :  the  reader 
will  perhaps  pardon  my  quoting  it. 

NIBLO'S  ASTOR  PLACE  THEATRE.— Mr.  Macready  appeared 
last  night  as  Brutus,  in  "  Julius  Caesar."  It  was  a  finished  per 
formance,  elaborate,  chaste,  quiet,  dignified,  grand,  and  natural 
throughout.  The  great  actor  is  apparent  in  Mr.  Macready,  by 
not  only  the  occasional  bursts  of  genius  at  particular  passages, 
and  the  display  of  talent  at  certain  special  points,  but  more,  still, 
by  the  tranquillity  and  quitt  of  his  manner,  and  the  almost  care 
less  ease  of  his  speech,  deportment,  and  bearing.  We  might  say 
of  Mr.  Macready  that  his  very  finest  hits,  which  produce  the 
greatest  impression,  (especially  upon  those  best  able  to  judge,) 
are  precisely  those  where  he  appears  to  make  no  effort  at  all,  and 
where  no  energy,  force,  or  violence,  are  perceptible.  For  this 
reason,  he  appears  to  vulgar  minds  not  half  so  good  an  actor  as  a 
more  tumultuous,  riotous  declaimer  would  seem  to  them  to  be. 
There  were  several  fine  points  in  the  performance  last  night, 
especially  the  quarrel  and  reconciliation  with  Cassius ;  also,  at  the 
moment  when  the  ghost  of  Caesar  leaves  him,  his  recovery  and 
effort  to  address  the  apparition  was  very  fine.  Mr.  G.  Vanden- 
hoff  particularly  distinguished  himself  last  night ;  his  performance 
of  Mark  Antony  was  such  as  only  could  have  been  displayed  by 
a  man  of  extraordinary  genius  and  scholarship,  both  of  which  Mr. 
V.  unquestionably  possesses  in  a  very  high  degree.  When,  in 
his  speech  to  the  rabble,  he  suddenly  dropped  some  of  the  vehe 
mence  of  his  action,  and  said  in  a  natural,  easy,  tranquil  tone  of 
voice — "  I  speak  that  you  do  know  " — the  effect  was  admirable. 
Mr.  V.  will  yet  succeed  in  acting  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  be 
tray  the  theatre  or  the  school  in  his  voice,  action,  and  manner, 
and  then  he  will  be  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest  actor 
on  the  stage.— New  York  Herald,  18th  October,  1848. 

The  Express  thus  spoke  of  the  same  performance  : 


230  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Mr.  MACREADY  performed  "  Brutus  "  in  "  Julius  Caesar,"  on 
Monday  evening,  at  this  establishment. 

We  do  not  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  personations  of  Mr. 
Macready.  But  he  does  nothing  unartistically,  and  there  were 
parts  of  this  performance  which  were  in  his  best  manner.  It  was 
unequal,  however.  Thus,  the  conclusion  of  the  quarrel  scene  with 
Cassius  was  far  better  than  the  principal  portion  of  it,  which  he 
gave  too  much  in  the  vein  of  Cassius  himself.  It  was  too  impet 
uous.  But  the  reconciliation  was  beautifully  done.  The  scene 
with  the  ghost  of  Cassar  was  as  great  as  was  that  with  the  boy 
Lucius,  asleep ;  but  the  farewell  to  Cassius  was  far  less  feeling 
than  we  had  a  right  to  expect,  and  we  do  not  know  that  we  ever 
heard  the  great  address  to  the  citizens,  "  Romans,  countrymen, 
and  lovers,"  lees  effectively  given,  by  an  actor  of  high  preten 
sions. 

Mr.  Ryder's  was  a  very  good  Cassius  ;  impassioned,  impetu 
ous,  well-conceived,  and  well  read.  Mr.  Chippendale's  Casca 
was  all  that  could  be  made  of  the  part,  of  course. 

Mr.  George  Vandenhoff,  as  Marcus  Antonius,  in  point  of  fact, 
carried  off  most  of  the  laurels  of  the  evening.  Throughout,  he 
looked,  acted,  and  read  the  part  with  great  care  and  effect.  It 
was  a  very  artist-like  performance,  and  drew  down  well  dis 
criminated  applause  from  the  audience,  from  first  to  last.  Through 
great  difficulties  of  stage  position,  in  the  scene  in  the  Capitol,  he 
made  it  most  telling  and  effective,  and  so  great  was  the  enthusiasm, 
at  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  after  his  grand  scene  in  the  Forum, 
that  he  was  called  before  the  curtain,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act, 
an  honor  not  accorded  to  the  star  of  the  occasion,  the  whole 
evening. 

I  also  played  with  him,  that  same  season,  at  the 
St.  Charles  Theatre,  New  Orleans,  the  same  charac 
ters,  with  the  addition  of  M.  Brutus  to  his  Cassius. 
The  latter  was  a  great  piece  of  acting  ;  it  was  Cassius 
himself : 

Impiger,  iracundm  inexorabilis,  acer. 


WHOLESALE   MUTILATION.  231 

His  Brutus,  on  the  contrary,  was  an  entire  mis 
take  :  there  was  none  of  the  philosophy  of  the  Portico 
about  it ;  no  contrast  to  the  impetuosity  of  Cassius : 
in  fact,  it  was  Cassius  with  a  different  "  make-up  ;  "  the 
mental  characteristics  exhibited  were  the  same.  And 
thus,  the  light  and  shade  so  marvellously  preserved  by 
Shakspere  in  this  great  play,  were  destroyed. 

For  his  benefit,  at  New  Orleans,  Mr.  Macready 
produced  (as  an  after-piece !)  the  "  School  for  Scan 
dal,'7  in  three  acts  !  cutting  out  the  great  scandal-scene, 
the  picture-scene,  and  several  other  scenes  ;  so  as  to 
confine  it,  as  much  as  possible,  to  the  development  of 
the  "  Plots  of  Joseph  Surface,''  which  character  he 
played,  (as  far  as  he  remembered  the  words — for  he 
was  very  imperfect,)  and  which  consequently  became, 
of  course,  the  feature ;  and  as  far  as  he  could  make  it 
so — the  only  feature  of  the  comedy.  He  insisted  too, 
(to  save  himself  trouble  in  dressing,  I  suppose,)  on 
wearing  his  own  modern  clothes ;  black  coat  and  pan 
taloons  !  I  played  Charles  Surface  ;  but  of  course  did 
not  follow  his  example  in  this  gross  anachronism  of 
costume. 

The  truth  is,  Mr.  Macready  valued  an  author  as  far 
as  the  author  served  him  •  and  he  respected  the  text, 
as  far  as  it  answered  his  purpose.  So  that,  his  Shak- 
sperean  Revivals,  which  were  got  up  with  great  care 
and  attention,  might  have  been  designated,  as  far  as 
integrity  of  text  went,  "  Restorations  of  so  much  of 
Shakspere  as  suits  Mr.  Macready" 

To  sum  up  his  merits,  fairly  and  impartially ;  as 
an  actor,  Mr.  Macready  excelled  in  executive  power, 
and  certainty  of  effect,  rather  than  in  imagination, 


232  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

individualization  of  character,  or  poetic  feeling. 
There  was  an  angularity  in  his  outlines,  and  a  hard 
ness  in  his  style,  that  were  only  redeemed  by  the 
intensity  with  which  he  wrought  out  his  design.  His 
attitudes  were  stiff,  and  frequently  ungainly ;  his 
rolling  gait,  with  an  alternate  thrusting  forward  of 
each  shoulder — which  has  been  copied  by  the  silly 
imitators  (servile  pecus  ! — )was  any  thing  but  graceful 
or  manly ;  and  gave  to  his  Macbeth,  on  his  first  en 
trance,  the  air  of  a  Lowland  dancing-master  in  a  kilt, 
rather  than  of  a  Highland  chieftain  in  arms  :  and  his 
over-distinct,  staccato,  equi-accented  syllabification  of 
utterance,  was  painful  to  the  ear,  and  utterly  destruc 
tive  of  the  rhythm  of  English  verse.  The  fact  is, 
beauty  and  grace  in  art  were  not  Macready's  study, 
so  much  as  exactitude ;  he  had  less  a  view  to  sym 
metry  of  form,  than  to  proportion  in  measurement ; 
the  formal  justness  of  a  right  angle  would  be  more 
palpably  satisfying  to  his  eye,  than  the  elegance  of  a 
curve ;  and  his  ear  found  more  pleasure  in  accent 
than  in  melody.  Thus,  he  seized  salient  points  of 
character,  and  gave  them  strong  emphasis,  and  relief; 
he  was  less  competent  to  make  harmonious  combina 
tions  of  parts  into  a  consistent  whole.  His  power  lay 
in  passionate  outbursts,  not  in  philosophical  analysis ; 
hence,  his  soliloquies  were  generally  faulty,  strained, 
violent,  not  toned  down  by  the  softening  influence  of 
thought.  His  Hamlet,  therefore,  had  little  melan 
choly,  but  much  asperity  in  it ;  and  his  Othello  was 

less  the  noble  Moor, — 

"  who  loved, 

Not  -wisely,  but  too  well ;  not  easily  jealous, 
But,  being  wrought,  perplexed  in  the  extreme," — 


VALEAT  !  233 

than  an  enraged  and  desperate  African,  lashed  into 
madness,  and  roused  to  thirst  for  blood  by  vindictive 
wrath,  and  implacable  revenge. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  was,  in  every  character  he 
played,  earnest,  intense,  energetic,  passionate ;  had 
a  voice  of  extraordinary  range  of  compass  ;  and 
brought  to  the  study  of  his  profession,  scholarship, 
industry,  and,  lastly,  an  unwearied  perseverance,  that 
carried  him  to  his  high  "  eminence,"  and  distanced 
all  his  competitors  in  the  dramatic  arena. 

As  a  manager,  he  was  the  great  martinet  of  his 
trionic  drill-masters ;  as  strict  a  disciplinarian,  and  as 
rigid  a  professional  formalist,  in  his  way,  as  Carlyle's 
Friedrich  Wilhelm  himself :  and  though  there  were 
wanting  Potsdam,  or  other  Giants, — no  theatrical  re 
cruiting  system  supplying  such  prodigies, — yet  every 
one  who  recollects  Macready's  managerial  campaigns 
at  Covent  Garden  and  Drury  Lane,  will  admit  that 
he  brought  his  forces  into  the  field  in  the  highest 
state  of  equipment,  and  general  efficiency.  He  had, 
besides,  the  assistance  of  Talfourd,  Bulwer,  and  other 
first-class  writers,  whose  plays  shed  honor  and  rained 
guineas  on  his  theatre,  and  were  permanent  additions 
to  the  literature  of  the  Drama. 

In  his  retirement  on  his  well-earned  fortune,  hon 
ored  by  the  honored,  he  devotes  himself  to  the  calm 
pursuits  of  literature,  and  to  schemes  of  educational 
philanthropy  in  his  own  neighborhood;  reaping,  I 
sincerely  trust,  a  full  harvest  of  those  delights  of  old 
age,  so  well  described  by  the  Koman  orator,  the  friend 
of  Koscius,  and  the  advocate  of  the  poet  Archias. 
May  he  long  enjoy  them ! 


234  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Mr.  BOOTH  (Lucius  JUNIUS  !)  I  first  met  Booth  (pere) 
on  occasion  of  Mr.  Simpson's  benefit,  at  the  Park 
Theatre,  in  1844,  previous  to  his  (S.'s)  going  to  England 
in  search  of  novelties ;  for  which  purpose  it  was  hoped 
that  this  benefit  would  put  him  in  funds.  Poor  Simp 
son!  he  was  always  at  low-water  mark;  and  the 
fortunes  of  the  Park  Theatre  annually  grew  more 
desperate.  On  this  occasion,  a  sort  of  olla  podrida  of 
acting  and  singing,  etc.,  was  got  up.  I  was  requested, 
and  assented  to  play  the  second  act  of  the  "  Lady  of 
Lyons,"  and  two  scenes  from  "  Julius  Caesar  "  writh 
Booth,  including  the  great  quarrel-scene ;  in  wilich 
he  was  to  be  Cassius,  and  I  Brutus.  Knowing  Booth's 
irregularity  in  business,  I  did  not  go  to  the  theatre 
for  rehearsal,  as  it  was  pretty  certain  to  be  a  lost 
labour.  At  night,  he  did  not  arrive  till  very  late ; 
some  time  after  the  hour  at  which  our  scene  ought  to 
have  commenced;  consequently,  I  did  not  see  him 
till  he  rushed  on  to  the  stage  to  me,  after  the  flourish 
of  trumpets,  which  announces  the  arrival  of  Cassius. 
On  he  came,  with  a  brusqueness  quite  in  character, 
confronted  me,  stopped,  gave  his  usual  long  sniff, — 
a  sort  of  drawing-in  of  the  breath  through  his  nostrils, 
which  was  a  habit  with  him, — made  a  dead  halt, 
glared,  and — said  nothing !  I  supposed  at  first,  never 
having  encountered  him  professionally,  that  it  was  his 
usual  mode  of  commencing  this  scene  ;  and  that  the 
long  pause  was  merely  the  herald  of  the  coming  storm 
— a  lull  before  the  thunder  crash.  I  waited  patiently  ; 
but  not  a  sound,  not  a  word !  Booth  still  glared  on 
me  mysteriously,  with  blood-shot  eye.  At  last,  when 
I  thought  this  pause  threatened  to 

"  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom," 


PARK   THEATRE — 1846.  235 

I  began  to  suspect  the  cause  of  the  mystery  ;  and,  as 
gently  as  possible,  suggested  that  we  had  waited  long 
enough,  by  giving  him  "  the  word,"  in  an  under  tone : 


!  " 


"  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong ! 

This  recalled  him  to  himself,  and  broke  his  abstrac 
tion  ;  he  gave  another  of  his  sniffs — said,  sotto  voce, 
to  me,  "  Thank  you !  " — and  coolly  enough  proceeded 
with  his  part — 

"  Most  noble  brother,  you  have  done  me  wrong ! " — 

and  so  the  scene  went  on. 

Poor  Simpson  had  but  an  indifferent  house  on  this 
occasion;  and  there  appeared  little  prospect  of  the 
Park  Theatre  reviving  under  his  management.  His 
vis  inertice  was  impregnable ;  nothing  could  rouse 
him  to  enterprise  or  activity ;  he  kept  on,  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end,  in  the  same  old,  beaten,  worn-out 
track,  that  led  to  the  swamp  of  final  stagnation.  He 
was  a  man  of  good  intentions,  and  honorable  in 
business ;  but,  in  those  wretched  days  of  theatrical 
prostration,  a  man  was  wanted  with  readiness  in 
emergencies,  an  enterprising,  active,  indomitable 
spirit,  to  fight  against  bad  times,  and  to  renovate  the 
whole  system  of  theatrical  management.  Simpson, 
poor  fellow,  succumbed  under  a  weight  that  was  too 
great  for  him,  and  died,  oppressed  by  its  responsi 
bilities.  I  played  but  two  engagements  more  at  the 
Park  under  Simpson's  management;  one  of  a  long 
duration,  in  1846 ;  during  which,  under  Mr.  BARRY'S 
sta<7£-management,  were  revived  for  me,  "  Alexander 
the  Great,"  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "The  Incon- 


236  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

stant,"  and  Ben  Jonson's  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humor ;  " 
in  which,  for  the  first  time,  I  played  the  arduous 
character  of  Kitely.  The  Park  Theatre  could  boast, 
at  that  time,  a  really  good  company,  especially  for 
comedy,  which  we  played  with  such  good  effect,  that 
old  DE  BEGNIS,  the  well-known  "basschbuffo^  meeting 
me  in  Broadway,  declared  that  comedies  were  then 
so  well  cast  and  played  at  the  Park,  that  "  to  see  them 
was  like  sitting  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  in  old  times" 
For  example,  "  Every  Man  in  his  Humor,"  was 
thus  cast : — 

PARK  THEATRE,  1846. 

Kitely, G.  VANDENHOFF 

OldKnowell,        ....  VACHE. 

Young  Knowell,         .        .        .  DYOTT. 

Wellbred, Crocker. 

Master  Stephen,         .        .        .  FISHER. 

Master  Matthew,  .        .        .        .  De  Wai  den. 

Justice  Clement,  G.  Andrews. 

Downright, BARRY. 

Captain  Bobadil,  G.  BARRETT. 

Cash, Pearson. 

Formal, Gallot. 

Cob, Povey. 

Brainworm,        ....  BASS. 

Mrs.  Kitely, .        .        .        .        .    Mrs.  BLAND  (H.  Faucit) 

Bridget, Mrs.  ABBOTT. 

Cob's  Wife,  ....    Mrs.  Dyott. 

My  last  engagement  at  the  Park  Theatre  was  the 
season  after  this,  with  the  KEANS,  in  their  really  great 
Shaksperean  production  of  "  King  John,"  in  Novem 
ber,  1846.  The  play  was  magnificently  put  upon  the 


KING   JOHN  —  PARK    THEATRE.  237 

stage,  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Charles  Kean,  at  a  very 
great  expense  —  I  know  not  how  many  thousand  dol 
lars  —  in  scenery,  dresses,  armor,  swords,  battle-axes, 
properties  and  appointments,  which  were  all  new,  and 
arranged  with  historic  and  pictorial  fidelity.  I  give 
a  copy  of  the  first  part  of  the  Bill  to  show  how  it  was 
cast,  and  to  give  an  idea  of  how  it  was  got  up.  Observe, 
too,  that  in  those  days  box-prices  were  one  dollar. 

PARK    THEATRE. 

Boxes  $1.  Pit  50  Cents.  Gallery  25  Cents. 

THE  GREAT  SHAKSPEAEIAN  EEVIVAL  !  !  ! 

Third  night  of 

MRS.  CHARLES  KEAN 

AND 

MR.  CHARLES  KEAN 

IN  SHAKSPEAEE'S  TEAGEDY  OP 


To  give  additional  effect  to  this  Play 

MR.    GEO.    VANDENHOFF 

Has  been  expressly  engaged  to  represent  the  Character  of  FAULCONBKIDGE. 

IX  ANNOUNCING  THIS 

GKEAT  SHAKSPEAEIAK  KEYIYAL! 

The  Manager  begs  respectfully  to  state,  that  no  labor  or  expense  has 
been  spared  in  endeavoring  to  attain  the  UTMOST  FIDELITY  OF 
HISTORIC  ILLUSTRATION! 


In  consequence  of  the  enormous  expense  attending  this  perform 
ance,  THE  FREE  LIST,  with  tfie  single  exception  of  the  Public  Press, 
must  be  suspended,  and  no  orders  can  on  any  account  be  admitted.  Jj£& 


238  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


"Wednesday  Evening,  November  18,  1846,  will  be 

Performed  SHAKSPEARE'S  Historical  Tragedy  of 


(Produced  under  the  Immediate  Direction  and  Super 
intendence  of  Mr.  CHAS.  KEAN,  at  a  cost  and  with  a  de 
gree  of  Correctness  and  Splendor,  it  is  believed, 
hitherto  not  witnessed  in  any  Theatre.) 

THE  SCENES  painted  on  upwards  of  15,000  square  feet  of  Canvas,  by 

Mr.  HILLYARD,  Mr.  GRAIN,  and  Assistants. 
THE    COSTUMES,    COSTLY  ARMORS,  176  in  number,  DECORATIONS  and 

APPOINTMENTS,   from    the  Authorities  named  hereafter,   by   Mr. 

DEJONGE. 
THE  MACHINERY,  by  Mr.  SPEYERS. 

$W~  The  indulgence  of  the  Audience  is  respectfully  solicited  between  the  first  and 
second  Acts,  as  the  whole  of  the  previous  scene  has  to  be  removed  for  the  pur 
pose  of  exhibiting  a  Panoramic  View  of  Angiers,  the  French  Camp  and  Distant 
Country :  the  Stage  thrown  open  to  the  Walls  of  the  Theatre. 

ENGLISH. 

JOHN,  KING  OF  ENGLAND MR.  CHARLES  KEAN. 

Prince  Henry,  his  son,  afterwards  King  Henry  III Mrs.  Sutherland 

Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  son  of  Jeffrey,  late  Duke  of  Bre- 

tagne,  the  elder  brother  of  King  John Miss  Denny 

"William  Mareshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke Mr.  A.  Andrews 

Geffrey  Fitz  Peter,  Earl  of  Essex,  Chief  Justiciary  of  England Heath 

William  Longsword,  Earl  of  Salisbury Chanfrau 

Eobert  Bigot,  Earl  of  Norfolk McDouall 

Hubert  De  Burgh,  Chamberlain  to  the  King Dyott 

Eobert  Faulconbridge,  son  of  Sir  Eobert  Faulconbridge Fisher 

PHILIP  FAULCONBRIDGE,  his  half  Brother,  Bastard  Son  to 

King  Kichard  the  First. MR.  GEORGE  VANDENHOFF. 

James  Gurney,  servant  to  Lady  Faulconbridge Povey 

First  English  Knight Gallot 

Sheriff  of  Northamptonshire Milot 

Herald Anderson 

Peter,  of  Pomfret,  a  Prophet Matthews 

Pages  to  King  John Mrs.  Gallot  and  Miss  Flynn 

Green  Knight  with  Buckler  and  Martel  De  Fer,  De  Warrene,  Oxford,  Hereford, 
Arundel,  Fitz  Walter,  De  Percey,  De  Clare,  De  Eos.     Knights,  Es 
quires,  Herald,  Attendants  on  Herald,  Trumpeters,  Ban 
ner  Bearers,  Bretagne  Knights,  Bretagne  Stand 
ard,  &c.,  by  Auxiliaries. 

FEENCH. 

Philip,  King  of  France Mr.  Barry 

Lewis,  the,  Dauphin Stark 

Melun,  a  French  Lord Bellamy 

Chatillon,  Ambassador  from  France  to  King  John Sutherland 

Herald Sprague 

Citizen  of  Angiers G.  Andrews 

De  Blois,  D'Arras,  St.  Omer,  De  Bretel,  De  Eoye,  De  Neuville,  De  Beaumont, 
Barons,  Knights,  Herald,  Attendants  on  Herald,  Trumpeters,  Ban 
ner  Bearers,  Citizens  of  Angiers,  Citizen  Soldiers,  &o., 
by  Auxiliaries. 


KING   JOHN PARK    THEATRE.  239 

AUSTRIANS. 

Leopold  VII.,  Archduke  of  Austria,  surnamed  Lymoges Mr.  S.  Pearson 

Austrian  Knights  and  Standard  Bearer  of  Austria,  by  Auxiliaries. 

PRIESTS. 

Cardinal  Pandulph,  Legate  of  the  Pope Mr.  Bass 

Notarius  Apostolicus.  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars,  Archbishop,  six  Bishops,  two 

Mitred  Abbots,  Priests,  Monks,  Knights  Templars,  Knights,  Hospitaller, 

Temple  Banners,  Host  Banner,  Trinity  Banner,   Italian 

Gentleman  Attendant  on  Cardinal,  &c.,  by 

Auxiliaries. 

LADIES. 

Elinor,  the  widow  of  King  Henry  II.,  and  Mother  of  King  John Mrs.  Abbott 

CONSTANCE,  Mother  to  Arthur MRS.  CHARLES  KEAN 

Blanch,  Daughter  to  Alphonso,  King  of  Castile,  and  niece  to 

King  John Miss  Kate  Horn 

Lady  Faulconbridge,  Mother  to  the  Bastard  and  Robert  Faul- 

conbridge Miss  Gordon 

Attendant  Ladies Mesdames  Burrows,  Milot,  Misses  Hall  and  Haydon 

SCENE — sometimes  in  England,  and  sometimes  in  France. 

Room  of  State,  in  John's  Palace, 

King  John  seated  on  Dais,  centre — De  "Warren,  with  tho  Sword  of 
State,  right — the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  on  the  left — Barons, 
Bishops,  Knights,  Heralds,  &c. 

The  Walls  of  Anglers,  with  Panoramic  View 

Of  the  French  Camp  and  distant  country — Engines  and  Machines  of 
"War  of  that  period. 

Interior  of  the  French  King's  Tent. 

The  Battle  Field. 

Battle  Plain,  with  Distant  View  of  Angiers. 

French  King's  Tent. 

Room  in  the  Castle  of  Northampton. 

Gothic  Hall  in  Northampton  Palace. 

View  before  the  Walls  of  Northampton  Castle. 

Interior  of  the  Temple  Church,  Northampton. 

Plain  near  St.  Edmunds  Bury. 

Field  of  Battle  near  St.  Edmunds  Bury. 

Another  Portion  of  the  Battle  Field. 

Gate  of  Swinstead  Abbey  (night). 

Orchard  of  Swinstead,  with  View  of  the  Abbey  (moonlight). 

Then  followed 

ME.  CHAS.  KEAN'S  AUTHORITIES  FOR  THE  COSTUME, 

occupying  about  twice  the  above  space. 

Well,  what  was  the  result  of  all  this  preparation  and 
outlay  ?  The  piece  ran,  with  some  difficulty,  to  mode 
rate  houses,  the  best  of  which  did  not  reach  $800,  for 
three  weeks ;  and  then,  to  Mr.  Kean's  great  mortifica- 


240  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

tion  and  disgust,  was  superseded  by  the  YIENNOISE 
CHILDREN,  (Enfans  terribles !  in  Kean's  eyes,)  who 
crammed  the  house  to  suffocation  for  the  following 
month ! 

So  much  for  Great  Shaksperean  Revivals !  WILLIS 
thus  spoke  of  it  in  the  Home  Journal,  after  giving  an 
elaborate  sketch  of  the  historical  features  of  the  play : 

The  mise  en  scene  is  perfect  j  perfect  in  costume,  in  scenery,  in 
decorations,  in  banners,  in  arms,  in  tout  ensemble :  and  the  actors 
are  all  perfect  in  their  parts.  Miss  Denny's  Arthur  is  a  charm 
ing  performance ;  Mrs.  Kean's  Constance  is  a  magnificent  concep 
tion  j  Mr.  Kean's  John  is  highly  characteristic  of  the  dark  and 
gloomy  tyrant ;  and  G.  Vandenhoff  's  Faulcoribridge  is  as  dash 
ing,  manly,  and  spirited  a  representation  of  the  gallant  bastard,  as 
we  can  conceive.  We  do  not  wish  it,  in  any  thing,  other  than  it 
is :  it  is  bold,  humorous,  intense,  and,  above  all,  natural :  were 
he  to  do  less,  he  would  not  be  up  to  the  mark ;  were  he  to  do 
more,  it  would  be  over-done :  "  omne  tulit  punctum^  and  he  well 
deserved  the  hearty  applause  which  he  received.  Dyott's  Hubert 
was  respectable ;  and  Mr.  Barry's  King,  was  a  king.  All  did 
well :  in  fact,  the  play  is  the  most  perfect  thing  ever  put  on  the 
Park  stage. 

This  was  my  last  engagement  at  the  Park  Theatre. 
In  1848,  on  Simpson's  death,  it  fell  into  Hamblin's 
hands,  who  opened  it  with  a  Bowery  Company  (!) ;  and, 
after  struggling  through  part  of  a  very  bad  season — 
worse,  even,  than  poor  Simpson  ever  had  known — it 
was  burnt  on  the  night  of  16th  Dec.  1848.  So  fell  the 
Park  Theatre,  the  OLD  DRURY  of  America  ;  and  with 
it  fell  the  legitimate  Drama  in  JSTew  York.  When  will 
it  rise  again  ? 

The  BROADWAY  THEATRE,  erected  in  1847,  was 
supposed  to  have  succeeded  to  the  honors  of  the  Park ; 


BROADWAY    THEATRE.  241 

and  was  opened  with  the  express  intention  of  putting 
an  end  to  the  starring  system.  I  was  engaged,  and 
played  there  a  portion  of  its  first  season  ;  but,  finding 
that  the  scheme  on  which  it  was  avowedly  to  be  carried 
on  was  utterly  abandoned,  and  that  not  only  was  the 
starring  system  revived,  but  that  stars  were  attempted 
to  be  made  out  of  rushlights,  I  took  the  first  opportu 
nity  of  emancipating  myself  from  the  fetters  of  my 
engagement,  the  spirit  of  which  had  been  violated. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  date  for  which  I  was  engaged, 
had  actually  expired ;  so  that,  though  my  evasion 
from  the  theatre  was  sudden,  it  was  perfectly  legal — 
my  contract  being  at  an  end,  by  lapse  of  time. 

Mr.  J.  R.  ANDERSON  played  a  very  successful — I 
mean,  profitable — engagement  at  this  theatre,  the  first 
season  of  its  existence  :  he  drew  well.  I  played  lago 
to  his  Othello,  and  Fulvius  to  his  Gisippus ;  and  the 
junction  of  our  forces  brought  great  houses. 

Anderson  and  I  were  of  old  acquaintance.  We  had 
played  together  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  in  the  sea 
son  of  1839.  I  took  his  place  there  in  1841-2,  on  his 
joining  Mr.  Macready,  at  Drury  Lane ;  and  we  had 
also  played  together,  as  stars,  at  the  Liverpool  and 
Manchester  Theatres  Royal.  He  is  a  good,  frank, 
manly  fellow,  as  a  man,  and  an  excellent,  dashing 
actor.  His  style,  it  is  true,  was  formed  too  exclu 
sively  in  the  Macready  school,  and  bore,  sometimes, 
too  evident  traces  of  the  "  master ; "  but  he  has  a  fine 
voice,  a  gallant  bearing,  and  great  knowledge  of,  and 
experience  in  all  the  practice  and  details  of  the  stage: 
for  he  has  been  on  it  since  he  was  a  boy,  has  played 
and  pushed  his  way  up  through  all  the  gradations  of 
11 


242  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

his  profession,  and  merits  great  credit  for  the  position 
which  his  own  exertions  have  attained. 

Mr.  Macready  introduced  him  to  the  London  Stage 
in  1837,  I  think,  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  in  the 
part  of  Florizel,  in  Shakspere's  "  "Winter's  Tale."  He 
at  once  made  a  favorable  impression  ;  every  year  im 
proved  his  position.  His  performance  of  Huon  (Love), 
at  Covent  Garden,  in  1839,  and  of  Fulvius  (Gisippus), 
in  1842,  at  Drury  Lane  (original  parts),  did  him  great 
service  with  the  public.  He  became  lessee  and  man 
ager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  in  1849-50 :  a  perilous 
experiment !  in  which,  if  he  failed,  it  was  perhaps 
more  owing  to  the  decline  of  the  public  taste  for  the 
atrical  performances,  than  to  any  want  of  tact  or  ex 
ertion  of  his  own.  During  his  management  of  that 
immense  concern,  "  Azael  the  Prodigal,"  and  "  Ingo- 
mar,"  were  his  most  successful  productions :  he  was 
the  original  hero  in  each.  In  this  city,  he  was  at  one 
time  a  sure  card.  His  first  appearance  at  the  Park 
Theatre  did  not  attract  great  attention  ;  but  his  second 
and  subsequent  engagements  were  greatly  profitable, 
and  for  a  time  arrested  the  backward  race  of  that  fall 
ing  house.  He  has  visited  the  States  many  times ; 
but,  latterly,  he  has  not  been  peculiarly  fortunate  in 
this  city,  where  he  last  played,  in  1852,  at  the  Metro 
politan  Theatre.  A  temporary  injury  to  his  voice, 
which  he  has  now  quite  recovered,  was,  perhaps,  one 
cause  of  this  waning  attraction  ;  or,  his  style  may  have 
palled  on  the  public  ear  by  familiarity ;  for  there  is 
no  accounting  for  the  fickleness  of  popular  taste  ;  the 
idol  of  to-day  may  be  the  martyr  of  to-morrow  ; — or 
worse,  even,  as  less  glorious,  the  neglected  and  broken 


SOPHOCLES'  ANTIGONE.  243 

toy.  Anderson  is  a  dashing  representative  of  some  of 
the  heavier  comedy  parts,  requiring  an  admixture  of 
tragic  power, — the  mixed  drama,  as  it  may  be  called  : 
his  "  King  of  the  Commons,"  for  example,  is  by  far 
the  best  personation  of  the  part  that  has  been  seen  in 
this  country.  He  had,  of  course,  had  the  advantage 
of  seeing  Mr.  Macready  in  the  character,  and  of  avail 
ing  himself  of  that  great  tactician's  arrangement  of  the 
scene  and  business  of  the  play  ;  but  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  what  Anderson's  performances  of  this 
agreeable,  and  taking  part,  may  have  lacked  in  finish, 
as  compared  with  his  original,  it  gained  in  fire,  fervor, 
and  gallant  bearing.  These  are  the  characteristics  of 
Mr.  Anderson's  style  ;  and,  my  opinion  is,  that  if  he 
had  trusted  to  them,  and  to  his  natural  impulses,  more 
than  to  his  reverence  for  Macready's  fame,  he  would 
have  attained  a  higher  and  more  assured  rank  among 
the  artists  of  the  day.  He  will,  I  trust,  receive  these 
remarks  in  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  made — that 
of  friendly  candor,  and  honest  good- will. 


SOPHOCLES'  ANTIGONE — (PALMO'S  OPEKA  HOUSE),  1845. 

Among  these  miscellaneous  leaves,  it  may  not  be 
out  of  place  to  state  that  I  was  engaged  for  a  fortnight 
at  Palmo's  Opera  House  (afterwards  Burton's),  in 
Chambers  Street,  to  produce  the  English  version  of 
Sophocles'  ANTIGONE,  with  Mendelsohn's  Music,  in  the 
Spring  of  1845.  I  did  my  best  with  the  resources 
that  were  at  my  command  ;  got  a  representation  of 
the  Old  Greek  Stage,  with  its  \vyeiov  and  £1^6X77, 
and  Altar  to  Bacchus,  built  on  the  stage  proper; 


244  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

as  good  a  company,  and  as  efficient  a  CHORUS  were 
collected  as  could  be  found  :  Mr.  GEO.  LODER  di 
rected  the  Orchestra  and  the  musical  arrangements, 
which  were  fair  ;  Miss  CLARENDON'S  youth  and  classic 
features  harmonized  well  with  the  personnel  of  Anti 
gone  ;  I  did  my  best  with  the  part  of  Creon  ;  and  we 
had  the  gratification  of  getting  through  the  first  night's 
performance  of  this  novel  and  difficult  style  of  play — • 
an  upraising  of  "  the  buried  majesty  of  "  SOPHOCLES, — 
without  a  single  trip  or  faux  pas. 

Our  efforts  were  rewarded  by  great  applause,  the 
approval  and  cordially-expressed  thanks  of  artists  and 
scholars,  but  with  very  indifferent  houses !  We  re 
peated  this  classic  disentomlment  twelve  successive 
nights,  and  then  "  quietly  inurned  "  the  mighty  Greek, 
to  sleep  in  undisturbed  and  unprofaned  repose. 
It  was  truly  a  beautiful  and  highly  interesting  tragedy, 
aided  by  grand  music.  In  Berlin  and  London  it 
drew  crowded  audiences  ;  in  New  York  it  never  paid 
its  expenses. 

Our  Chorus,  which  amounted  to  about  forty,  rep 
resenting  Sages  of  Creon's  Court,  presented  a  very 
grotesque  appearance;  and  one  that,  at  first  sight, 
nearly  disturbed  my  gravity  on  the  first  night.  OLD 
ALLEN  had  made  the  wigs  and  beards  for  these  Grecian 
Sages,  out  of  long  white  and  grey  goafs  hair  /  and, 
as  the  whole  set  were,  I  presume,  contracted  for,  no 
great  artistic  care  had  been  expended  upon  them. 
Now,  Mendelsohn's  music  was  very  difficult ;  and,  on 
the  last  rehearsal,  Mr.  Loder  found  that  his  chorus, 
principally  German,  could  get  very  well  through  their 
work,  if  they  could  have  the  score  before  them,  not 


LYCEUM — THEATRE  ?  245 

otherwise.  It  was  therefore  arranged  that  the  music 
should  stand  open  before  them  :  they  themselves  were 
to  be  ranged  close  to  the  footlights  on  the  stage,  be 
tween  the  second  or  raised  stage  (the  stage  of  the 
Greek  Theatre)  and  the  actual  Orchestra.  Now, 
some  of  these  gentlemen  being  short-sighted,  had,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  read  their  score  distinctly,  put  on 
their  spectacles ;  and,  I  ask  you  to  fancy  my  horror, 
mingled  with  a  dreadful  envie  de  rire,  when  I  en 
tered,  at  seeing  a  parcel  of  goat-headed,  goat-bearded 
old  fellows,  in  Grecian  robes,  with  spectacles  on  nose, 
confronting  me,  within  the  proscenium,  opening  wide 
their  mouths,  and  baa-a-ing  at  me,  as  it  were,  with  all 
their  might !  They  looked  like  an  assemblage  of  the 
ghosts  of  defunct  Welsh  Bards,  summoned  to  their 
goat-covered  hills  by  the  wand  of  Merlin  ;  and  the 
spectacles  might  have  been  mistaken,  by  a  heated 
fancy,  for  the  glaring  of  their  spectral  eyes  ! 

Luckily,  their  backs  were  to  the  audience ;  the 
actors  alone  were  fully  conscious  of  the  awful  travestie. 


MRS.  C.  "N.  SINCLAIR,  (LATE  MRS.  FORREST.) — In 
1852  I  played  at  what  was  then  called  Brongh- 
ham's  Lyceum,  now  "Wallack's  Theatre — (there  is 
great  merit  in  calling  things  by  their  right  names  !) — 
with  Mrs.  C.  N.  Sinclair;  who  had  just  resumed  her 
paternal  name  in  consequence  of  her  divorce  from  her 
husband,  the  great  American  Tragedian.  Trial  by 
jury  is  a  great  Alfred-ian.  institution  ;  "  the  palladium 
of  our  liberties,"  and  all  that ;  but,  as  my  Uncle  Toby 
says,  "  it  is  not  till  the  great  and  general  review  of  us 


246  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

all,  corporal,  the  day  of  judgment,  that  it  will  be 
known  "  what  verdicts  will  stand,  and  what  will  not ! 

I  was  an  utter  stranger  to  Mrs.  Forrest  till  I  re 
ceived,  some  time  in  1851,  a  message,  through  the  late 
GRANBY  CALCRAFT,  requesting  me  to  call  on  her  with 
a  view  of  advising  her  as  to  her  capabilities  for  the 
stage.  I  did  so.  I  gave  her  my  candid  opinion  that 
it  was  late  in  life  for  her  to  take  such  a  step  ;  although 
she  had  qualities  which,  had  they  been  cultivated  and 
improved  in  earlier  youth,  might,  and  would,  have  led 
her  to  distinction.  She,  however,  represented  that 
she  would  soon,  in  all  probability,  have  to  depend  on 
her  talents  for  the  stage,  whatever  they  might  be,  for 
her  support ;  and  that  she  wished  me  to  give  her  in 
structions  in  three  or  four  parts,  to  enable  her  to  ap 
pear  with  some  success. 

I  did  not  decide  that  evening,  but  called  on  her, 
by  appointment,  the  following  day  ;  heard  her  read 
some  passages  of  poetry  to  me,  and  consented  to  act 
as  her  instructor.  I  advised  her  immediately  to  study 
Lady  Teazle,  Beatrice,  Margaret  El  more,  Pauline,  and 
Mabel,  in  the  "  Patrician's  Daughter ; "  and  it  was 
understood  that,  as  she  had  no  present  means  of  pay 
ment,  I  was,  on  condition  of  getting  her  "  up  "  in  these 
and  other  parts,  and  playing  the  opposite  parts  to  her 
on  her  engagements,  to  receive  half  of  the  profits  for 
our  joint  performances.  I  state  this  candidly,  because 
there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  misconception  and  mis 
representation  about  the  matter.  It  stood  simply 
thus :  Mrs.  Forrest  wished  to  go  on  the  stage  ;  she 
needed  preparation  ;  she  could  not  pay  for  it ;  but  it 
was  probable  that  public  curiosity  would  render  her 


A   DEBUTANTE — LADY    TEAZLE.  247 

engagements  highly  profitable  ;  and,  in  consideration 
of  my  instructions,  and  also  of  my  performing  with 
her,  I  was  to  be  allowed  an  equal  share  of  the  profits 
which  her  temporary  and  factitious  attraction  would 
secure.  I  hope  that  is  clearly  stated. 

Accordingly,  I  instructed  her  in  the  delivery,  the  ac 
tion,  the  business,  and  the  whole  details  of  these  several 
parts  :  to  which  Parthenia,  in  "  Ingomar,"  was  added, 
on  my  obtaining  the  manuscript  copy — the  first  that 
had  come  to  this  country — from  the  translator,  Mrs. 
Lovell,  in  England.  In  opening,  after  her  divorce,  in 
January,  1852,  in  Lady  Teazle,  she  acted  entirely 
under  my  advice,  contrary  to  the  suggestions  of  other 
parties,  and  even  to  her  own  view  ;  other  characters 
were  proposed  for  her  delmt.  I  was  confined  to  my 
room,  at  the  Clarendon  Hotel,  by  severe  illness,  at  the 
time,  and  she  came  up  to  see  me  before  she  made  her 
final  determination.  I  strongly  insisted  on  Lady 
Teazle  as  the  one  of  all  others  in  which  her  appearance, 
style,  and  general  capabilities  would  make  the  best 
impression;  and  exacted  a  promise  from  her,  before 
leaving  me,  that  no  representation  or  persuasion  of 
other  parties  should  induce  her  to  deviate  from  this 
choice.  -She  adhered  to  Lady  Teazle ;  and  her  great 
success  in  it  fully  justified  my  selection.  It  was  the 
most  artistic  performance  she  ever  achieved  :  the  one 
in  which  her  personal  requisites  and  her  education 
stood  her  in  the  best  stead.  She  never  played  any 
other  part  as  easily,  as  unaffectedly,  or  with  as  much 
success  with  the  public. 

During  her  first  fortnight,  I  was  not  sufficiently 
recovered  to  perform  with  her ;  but,  in  her  third 


248  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

week,  I  joined  her,  commencing  with  the  "  Lady  of 
Lyons." 

I  give  the  receipts  of  the  first  eight  nights  of  our 
joint  performance.  The  terms  were  to  share,  after 
$100 ;  that  is,  to  share  with  the  manager,  he  first  de 
ducting  for  himself  one  hundred  dollars. 

The  receipts  of  eight  nights  were  : 

1852.,  Feb.  16  to  23  inclusive,  "Lady  of  Lyons,"  )  *,  ,10  Kn 

"     24,  "Love's  Sacrifice,"  J  $4'119  50 

Deduct  on  eight  nights  for  the  Manager, 800  00 

$3,319  50 


Leaving  as  our  joint  share  for  eight  nights, $1,659  75 


That  is,  for  each, $879  87-J- 

Mrs.  Sinclair  was  then  taken  ill,  and  did  not  resume 
her  performances  till  the  first  of  March. 

For  her  third  week,  the  receipts  were  $2,405  75 ; 
of  which  our  joint  share  was  $902  87J  ;  that  is, 
$451  43  each. 

In  her  fourth  week,  we  played  only  four  nights, 
one  of  which  we  gave  to  Mr.  Brougham  for  his  benefit, 
and  the  joint  share  was  $637  87|  or  $368  93  each  ;— 
thus,  on  the  seventeen  nights,  our  joint  share  was 
$3,200  50,  or  $1,600  25  each. 

On  the  12th  March,  we  were  engaged  to  give  a 
Heading,  jointly,  at  the  Tripler  Hall,  (now  the  Metro 
politan  Theatre,)  at  the  sum  of  $300,  which  we  shared 
equally.  At  this  Heading,  I  had  the  honor  to  be  en 
cored  in  the  recitation  of  "  Young  Lochinvar." 

The  course  I  adopted  was,  to  settle  in  full  with  heron 
every  engagement ;  stating  the  account  of  each  night's 
receipts,  paying  her  the  amount,  and  taking  her  sig- 


LOST    TIME.  249 

nature  to  the  account  and  acknowledgment  for  her 
share  of  the  proceeds,  at  the  foot  of  such  account,  in 
my  book.  And  I  have  her  signature  and  discharge 
to  every  such  account  of  every  engagement  which  we 
ever  played  together. 

The  summary  of  those  engagements,  up  to  May 
26,  inclusive,  was  as  follows  : 

1852.  Joint  Shares.    I    Half  Share,  each. 

Feb.  16  to  March  10— New  York, 


17  nights $3,200  50 

March  12— A  Reading 300  00 

k'      22— Philadelphia,  U  nights, 
taking  clear  half  of  the  gross 

receipts 2,412  12 

April  19— Boston,  14  nights,     do  2,291  75 

May   10— Portland,                    do  266  75 

"      17— Providence,  5  nights,  do  499  85 

"      26— New  Bedford,  163  75 


$9,134  72 


$1,600  25 
150  00 


1.206  06 
1,143  87 

133  37 

249  97 

86  87 

$4,567  36 


To  enable  her  to  go  to  England,  for  the  purpose 
of  visiting  her  father,  (since  deceased,)  I  advanced 
her — besides  having  paid  her  the  above  half  share,  in 
full — over  $2,500  ;  which,  with  other  sums  advanced 
to  her  on  her  return,  left  her  in  my  debt,  for  money 
lent,  to  the  amount  of  over  $2,800,  on  her  going  to 
California. 

From  California  she  remitted  me  to  London,  in 
1853,  on  account,  a  draft  on  Peabody  for  £200  ster 
ling,  (§1,000),  which  leaves  a  balance  due  to  me,  at 
this  day,  of  nearly  $2,000,  exclusive  of  interest,  for 
money  lent  to  her. 

And  this  was  the  result  of  my  engagements  with 
Mrs.  Sinclair :  that  I  lost  my  time  and  my  money, 
both,  instead  of  having  "  put  money  in  my  purse,"  as 
11* 


250  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

has  been  generally  believed.  My  sole  motive  for 
publishing  the  above  statement,  is  to  show  the  true 
state  of  an  affair  \vhich  has  been  much  misrepre 
sented.  It  is  an  additional  confirmation  of  the  old 
proverb — 

"  All  that  glitters  is  not  gold." 


ENGLAND LIVERPOOL.  251 


XV. 

EETTTEN  to  England,  1853 — Kevival  of  Henry  Y.  at  Liverpool — A  "Word  on  Shak- 
spercan  Eevivals — Incident — Manchester  Theatre  Royal — An  Equestrian  Ex 
cursion — How  to  do  it — Its  Pleasures — Amateur  Hosts — Engaged  at  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  London— Buckstone  on  Shakspere— A  German  Hamlet- 
Horseback  Trip  to  St.  Leonard's — The  Isle  of  Wight — An  Excursion  mapped 
out— Sandrock  Hotel— Victoria  Claret— A  Modern  Cleopatra. 

ILL  health  compelled  me,  in  January,  1853,  to 
desist  from  professional  exertion ;  and,  as  change  of 
air  was  recommended  me,  I  quitted  New  York  for 
Europe  by  the  steamer  Arabia,  and  arrived  at  Liver 
pool  on  the  6th  February,  considerably  benefited  by 
the  sea  voyage. 

Almost  immediately  on  my  arrival,  Mr.  Copeland, 
manager  of  the  two  theatres  there,  stated  to  roe  his 
desire  to  produce  Shakspere's  historical  play  of  Henry 
Y.  He  had,  he  said,  already  prepared  scenery  and 
appointments  for  the  piece,  which  he  intended  to  pro 
duce  with  great  care,  and  at  a  considerable  expense ; 
and  he  invited  me  to  play  the  gallant  Henry.  Find 
ing  that  he  did  not  desire  to  bring  it  out  for  some 
weeks  to  come,  I  consented  to  the  terms  he  proposed 
to  me  for  five  weeks,  commencing  on  Easter  Monday 
following. 


252  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Mr.  Copeland  asked  me  "  liow  1  would  like  to  be 
announced  "  in  the  advertisements.  Whether  I  would 
wish  to  be  styled  the  "  eminent  Tragedian,"  or  the 
"  distinguished  Tragedian,"  or  the  "  classical  Tra 
gedian,"  or  the  "  highly  popular  Tragedian,"  or 
the  "  Shaksperean  Tragedian  ; "  in  fine,  what  terms 
of  addition  and  self-glorification  (more  histrionwri) 
I  wished  tacked  on  to  my  name.  I  said,  "None; 
simply  announce  that  Mr.  G.  Yandenhoff  will  make  his 
first  appearance  in  Hamlet ;  and  let  the  audience  find 
out  what  degree  I  am  entitled  to,  in  the  Dramatic 
College."  As  old  Tobias  says,  "  he  was  pleased  with 
my  answer." 

This  self-labelling  is  very  absurd.  In  champagnes, 
we  find  that  the  best  wine  has  the  plainest  and  most 
unpretending  label.  A  very  highly-embellished  de 
vice  on  the  bottle,  always  suggests  the  idea  of  a  do 
mestic  article,  with  a  strong  suspicion  of  the  Jersey- 
apple  about  it — excellent  for  cider,  but  a  swindle  in 
champagne  ! 

Accordingly,  having  quite  re-established  my  health 
in  the  interval,  I  commenced  at  Liverpool  with  Ham 
let,  to  a  densely-crowded  house,  on  Monday,  28th 
March,  1853,  being  my  first  appearance  there  since 
my  departure  for  the  United  States,  in  '42.  1  played 
during  the  week  Shylock,  for  the  first  time  ;  Claude, 
in  the  "  Lady  of  Lyons,"  twice  ;  and  repeated  Ham 
let,  and,  played  the  Stranger,  also,  twice.  The  week's 
business  produced  great  receipts. 

The  Monday  following  (4th  April),  I  appeared, 
for  the  first  time,  as  Henry  Fifth  ;  which  was  put  upon 
the  stage  by  Mr.  Copeland  with  great  care  and  atten- 


SHAKSPEREAN  REVIVALS.  253 

tion  to  scenery,  costume,  and  appointments.  The 
play  ran  twenty-three  successive  nights,  to  excellent 
houses :  though,  I  believe,  they  scarcely  paid  for 
the  extraordinary  expenses  incurred  by  Mr.  Copeland 
in  his  production  of  the  piece — another  proof  that 
Shaksperean  Revivals,  when  got  up  with  new  and  ap 
propriate  scenery  and  appointments,  never  remune 
rate  the  management.  It  was  so,  I  have  shown  in 
these  leaves,  at  the  Park  Theatre,  in  the  case  of  King 
John,  in  1846 :  and  Mr.  C.  Kean,  in  his  valedictory 
address  at  the  Princess's  Theatre,  London,  has  borne 
strong  testimony  to  the  general  truth  of  the  fact,  by 
declaring  that  it  was  only  Ms  own  resources  that  ena 
bled  him  to  gratify  the  pride  and  ambition  he  felt  in 
producing  Shakspere's  Dramas,  with  that  remarkable 
splendor  and  pictorial  effect  by  which  his  administra 
tion  has  distinguished  itself  in  theatrical  annals.  There 
is  another  drawback  to  these  Shaksperean  spectacles, 
and  one  very  serious  and  prejudicial  to  the  moral  and 
intellectual  effect  of  the  Drama  itself.  I  mean  this : 
that  the  spirit  and  interest  of  the  action  is  lost  in  the 
pictorial  display  ;  the  text  becomes  of  secondary  im 
portance  to  the  audience ;  the  eye  of  the  spectator  is 
entirely  engrossed  with  the  scenic  effect,  and  pays 
little  attention  to  the  actor, 

"  thinking  his  prattle  to  be  tedious," 

except  as  far  as  he  serves  as  cicerone  to  the  raree  sJww, 
and  becomes,  as  it  were,  a  mere  train-bearer  to  the 
glories  of  the  scene-painter  and  costumer.  This  I  take 
to  be  a  powerful  objection  to  the  overlaying  Shakspere's 
Drama  with  spectacular  coloring,  and  profuseness  of 


254  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

pictorial  illustration  ;  that  it  is  fatal  to  the  interest  of 
the  play  itself,  and  utterly  distinctive  of  the  attention 
from  the  actor  and  the  text.  I  have  always  seen  Ham 
let,  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  other  of  the  greatest  trage 
dies,  produce  the  most  intense  effect  when  the  scenic 
illustrations  and  costumes  have  been  appropriate  and 
reasonably  correct,  without  being  elaborately  minute, 
or  extravagantly  gorgeous.  It  is  ruinous  to  the  Poet 
to  make  him  stand  as  the  mere  letter-press  to  the  ta 
bleaux.  If  spectacle  is  to  be  the  main  feature  of  our 
theatres — if  the  public  taste  has  become  so  pampered 
by  indulgence,  that  it  can  only  be  tempted  by  show 
and  glare,  then,  I  say,  give  it  spectacle,  pure  et  simple  ; 
let  the  action  and  the  dialogue  be  mere  canvas-lines 
and  clothes-pegs,  and  let  them  be  chosen  and  arranged 
as  such  ;  but  do  not  let  us  degrade  the  verse  of  him 
to  whom  Nature  gave  the  "  golden  keys  " 

"  That  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy, 
Of  horror,  woe,  and  thrilling  fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears," — 

do  not  let  us  make  &pack-Jiorse  of  his  verse,  to  carry 
the  scene-painter,  the  costumer,  and  the  carpenter  in 
triumph  to  the  gods  ! 

Pardon  this  little  diversion,  reader ;  the  subject 
hurried  me  away. 

A  little  incident  happened  to  me  during  this  en 
gagement  at  Liverpool,  that  amused  and  pleased  me. 
Desiring  to  get  an  early  dinner,  in  a  hurry,  I  walked 
into  a  well-known  establishment,  called  the  "  Crooked- 
billet  ;  "  and,  finding  the  large  dining-room  full,  I  en 
tered  a  little  side-room,  where  I  found  a  plainly- 


MARKS    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  255 

dressed  country  tradesman,  as  he  appeared,  waiting 
for  bis  dinner.  I  ordered  mine;  and,  after  a  few 
minutes,  he  said  to  the  girl  who  waited — in  a  toler 
ably  strong  Lancashire  accent — "  Come,  come,  lass  ; 
make  haste!  time's munney  !  "  (money).  Then,  turning 
to  me,  he  added,  " Isn't  it,  sir?"  Now  it  was  the 
breathing-time  of  day  with  me,  and  I  answered,  "  To 
you  it  may  be  :  I'm  sorry  to  say  it  is  not  so  with  me." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  he,  after  taking  my  measure  with  his 
eye,  "  I  dare  say  you  don't  trubble  yourself  wr  busi 
ness  mooch." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  answered  ;  "  what  would  you  take  me 
to  be  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "I  should  take  you  to  be  aboov  all 
business ;  not  to  need  it,  I  mean." 

To  give  him  a  surprise,  and  see  how  he  would 
take  it,  I  replied:  "  How  wrong  you  are  !  I  am  an 
actor !  " 

"  Are  you  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  then  "  (slapping  his  hand 
on  his  thigh)  UI  can  tell  you.  who  you  are.  You  are 
George  Vandenhoff." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  By  the  voice.  I  saw  you  play  Henry  the  Fifth 
t'other  night,  and  mightily  pleased  I  was." 

'*  "Well,"  said  I,  "  are  you  surprised  to  find  that 
I'm  an  actor,  instead  of  a  man  of  fortune,  which  you 
took  me  for?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  he  answered  ;  "  you  might  as  well  be 
one  as  t'other ;  and,"  he  added,  "  I  don't  know  that 
any  one  can  do  more  than  look  like  a  gentleman,  and 
behave  like  one,  whether  he  has  a  fortune  or  not." 

Pretty  good,  I  thought,  for  a  country  tradesman. 


256  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

After  taking  my  benefit  at  Liverpool,  and  remain 
ing  for  a  week,  I  engaged  immediately  at  the  Man 
chester  Theatre  Royal  for  four  weeks  ;  one  of  which  I 
played  alone,  and  three  in  conjunction  with  HELEN 
FAUCIT.  I  have  elsewhere  described  this  charming 
actress,  and  will  only  say  here,  that  it  was  the  first 
occasion  of  my  meeting  her  professionally.  We  played 
the  usual  business  ;  but  not  to  great  houses  :  for  Miss 
Faucit's  attraction  had  begun  to  decline.  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  please  the  public  here  mightily :  of  which 
fact  they  gave  me,  nightly,  the  amplest  demonstration, 
particularly  in  Jacques,  Charles  Surface,  Hamlet,  and 
Rover  in  "  Wild  Oats."  In  all  of  these  parts,  the  ap 
plause  was  of  that  hearty,  determined  kind,  by  which 
a  Manchester  audience  testifies  its  perfect  satisfaction. 
The  management  of  the  theatre  proposed  to  me,  be 
fore  the  end  of  my  first  week,  a  long  engagement  for 
the  next  season. 

Of  course,  after  being  so  long  absent  from  the 
English  stage,  it  was  gratifying  to  me  to  find  myself 
so  well,  I  may  say,  so  enthusiastically  received  on  my 
return. 


At  the  close  of  this  engagement,  not  having  en 
tirely  recovered  my  strength,  I  deliberately  gave 
myself  a  holiday,  bought  a  sweet  little  chestnut 
mare,  and  indulged  myself  with  a  delightful  equestrian 
excursion  into  North  Wales ;  starting  from  Manches 
ter  on  the  15th  June,  and  riding  via  Chester,  Eangor, 
Beaumaris,  Con  way,  Rhyl,  Denbigh,  Ruthin,  Llan- 
gollen,  Oswestry,  Shrewsbury,  Birmingham,  Kenil- 


HORSEBACK    EXCURSION.  257 

worth,  "Warwick,  Stratford-on-Avon,  Leamington, 
Woodstock,  Oxford ;  and  thence  through  Henley  on 
Thames,  and  Maidenhead,  to  London  ;  where  I  arrived 
10th  July,  having  ridden  450  odd  miles — a  most 
agreeable  excursion.  My  little  mare,  a  perfect  beauty, 
Arabian  in  form  and  style,  and  not  more  than  four 
teen  hands  high,  did  her  work  admirably ;— sometimes 
I  rode  her  forty,  sometimes  even  fifty  miles  a  day : 
she  never  refused  a  feed,  and  entered  London  brisk  and 
well  : — stopping  a  day  or  two  at  agreeable  places, 
and  always  finding  capital  inns,  good  beds,  and  excel 
lent  fare  on  the  road  ;  and  my  expenses  not  exceed 
ing,  horse-keep  included,  an  average  of  fourteen 
shillings  and  sixpence  sterling,  about  $3  50  per  day. 
Of  course,  I  did  not  feed  on  turtle-soup,  or  drink 
champagne  ;  but  contented  myself  with  a  good,  plain 
dinner  from  one  excellent  joint,  beef  or  mutton,  and 
a  glass  of  sound,  well-brewed  ale  from  malt  and  hops, 
which  you  can  get  anywhere  and  everywhere  in  Eng 
land  and  "Wales. 

I  mention  these  items  for  the  guidance  of  my 
American  fellow-citizens  who  may  feel  desirous,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  water,  to  make  an  equestrian  or 
vehicular  excursion  in  England  or  Wales  ;  independent 
of  railway  carriages  and  time-tables ;  with  the  view  of 
improving  their  health,  seeing  the  country,  enjoying 
God  Almighty's  fresh-air,  and  the  beauties  of  nature, 
with  no  foolish  ambition  of  "swelling  it,"  or  passing 
for  princes  in  their  own  country. 

I  have  made  similar  excursions  in  this  country,  but 
not  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  Europe.  In  summer, 
the  heat  is  too  oppressive  here,  and  horse  and  rider 


258  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

suffer  too  much  from  it :  besides,  at  the  small  taverns 
on  the  road  you  are  not  always  certain  of  a  dinner, 
unless  you  arrive  at  or  about  the  gong-hour ;  nor  are 
the  roads  in  such  line  order  as  those  of  England,  which 
is  the  country  of  all  others  for  a  horseback  trip,  from 
the  temperance  of  the  climate,  the  excellence  of  the 
beautiful  high-roads,  the  comfort  of  the  little  inns,  the 
goodness  and  cheapness  of  the  fare  for  man  and  beast, 
and  the  continued  succession  of  villages  between  the 
large  towns  arid  cities,  so  that  the  traveller  can  never 
be  at  a  loss  for  a  good  stopping  place,  and  civil  treat 
ment.  These  are  two  things,  mind  you,  which  one 
does  not  always  find  here,  especially  when  one  lights 
on  any  of  those  sort  of  amateur  hosts,  "  who  don't 
keep  tavern,  but  take  folks  in  " — in  more  senses  than 
one — who  make  it  a  favor  to  give  you  very  poor  fare, 
a  horrid,  collapsing,  mockery  of  a  feather-bed,  in  the 
middle  of  summer,  a  "  drefful  bad "  breakfast,  and 
charge  you  hotel  prices  into  the  bargain ! 

I  came  upon  such  a  fellow  once — a  Capt.  T , 

(of  course,  he  was  a  captain  !)  in  a  little  village  about 
eleven  miles  from  Hartford,  Conn.,  who  would  only 
allow  me  just  so  much  straw  for  my  horse's  bed — about 
enough  to  litter  a  good-sized  dog — and  would  feed 
him  just  as  he  pleased  ;  a  regular  ignorant,  insolent, 
old  bully  :  I  let  him  know,  however,  that  when  I 
stopped  at  a  tavern,  whether  it  was  called  so  or  no,  I 
was  in  the  habit  of  having  my  way  in  such  matters ; 
and,  by  dint  of  coolness,  and  a  determined  standing  on 
my  rights,  I  brought  his  captain-ship  to  reason,  and 
the  next  morning  extorted  from  him  a  kind  of  apology, 
on  the  plea  that  "  he  didn't  know  what  sort  of  a  per- 


A   GERMAN   HAMLET.  259 

son  I  was,  the  night  before,"  (didn't  know  whether 
I  would  stand  his  insolence  or  not,)  "  if  he  'd'  a  knowed 
as  I  was  a  gentleman,  &c."  But  I  gave  the  old  fellow 
a  lesson  on  civility  to  "folks"  in  general,  and  a  few 
words  on  the  duty  of  a  tavern-keeper,  amateur  or 
other,  that  I  rather  think  he  remembers. 


On  my  arrival  in  London,  I  found  at  my  father's  a 
note  from  Mr.  Buckstone,  the  manager  of  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  proposing  to  me  an  engagement  as 
leading  actor  of  that  theatre,  for  the  season  to  com 
mence  on  the  following  October :  and,  after  an  inter 
view  with  him,  the  terms  of  our  agreement  were 
settled.  In  deciding  on  my  opening  part,  Mr.  Buck- 
stone  was  very  much  opposed  to  "  Hamlet,"  or  any 
other  Shaksperean  character,  "  for,"  said  he,  "  it's  no 
matter  if  you  could  play  it  as  well  as  John  Keinble,  a 
Shaksperean  play  keeps  money  out  of  the  house!" 
Here  was  a  prospect  in  a  first-class  Metropolitan 
Theatre  !  I  however  adhered  to  my  point,  and  "  Ham 
let  "  was  finally  decided  on  for  the  25th  October  fol 
lowing.  The  theatre  was  to  re- open  on  the  2-ith,  and 
on  the  second  night,  I  was  to  make  my  re-appearance 
on  the  London  stage,  after  an  absence  of  eleven 
years. 

There  was,  at  this  time,  performing  at  the  St.  James' 
Theatre,  a  company  of  German  spillers  (players),  with 
the  somewhat  celebrated  EMILE  DEVRIENT  at  their 
head.  Observing  "Hamlet"  announced  one  night,  I 
went,  with  my  father,  to  witness  the  performance.  It 
was  SCHILLER'S  version  that  was  given ;  and  it  was  so 


260  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

faithful  to  the  Shaksperean  text,  line  for  line,  that 
there  was  difficulty  in  following  it.  Devrient's  ren 
dering  of  "  Hamlet "  was  not  without  merit;  though 
in  the  first  act  he  was  unnecessarily  violent,  and  even 
grotesque  in  attitude  and  gesture.  In  the  subsequent 
acts  he  improved  wonderfully,  mellowing,  and  grow 
ing  into  the  character,  and  touching  the  assumed  mad 
ness  of  "  Hamlet  "  with  great  nicety  of  discrimination. 
The  great  drawback  to  his  performance  was  a  lack  of 
dignity  and  grace ;  there  was  nothing  of  the  Prince 
about  him :  and  one  shocking  absurdity  that  he  al 
lowed  himself  to  be  guilty  of,  would  have  gone  far  to 
destroy  the  effect  of  a  much  greater  performance.  It 
is  so  ludicrous  as  to  be  worth  mentioning;  though  it 
was  only  carrying  out  a  ridiculous  custom  to  the  ex 
treme  of  inconsistency. 

When,  in  obedience  to  the  silent  summons  of  the 
ghost,  who 

"  wafts  him  to  a  more  removed  ground 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  him  alone/' — 

Hamlet  made  his  exit  with  the  words,  in  German, 
"  Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee,"— 

there  was  some  applause  from  the  audience  ;  not  very 
enthusiastic,  but  some  applause.  On  which,  the  Ger 
man  actor,  who  had  scarcely  passed  the  wing  (side- 
scene),  immediately  returned,  breaking  off,  for  the 
moment,  from  his  obedience  to  the  ghost ;  and,  aban 
doning  his  identification  with  Hamlet,  advanced  to 
the  foot-lights,  and  bowed  three  times  to  the  audience, 


EQUESTRIAN    EXCURSIONS.  261 

in  acknowledgment  of  their  favor !  Could  any  thing 
be  more  absurd  ?  more  fatal  to  the  gravity  of  the 
situation  ?  I  expected  the  Ghost  to  "  hark  back,"  too, 
but  he  was  a  discreet,  as  well  as 

"  an  honest  ghost," 

and  did  not  return  to  the  glimpses  of  the  foot-lights, 
to  express  his  sense  of  terrestrial  and  mundane  com 
pliments.  This  was,  unintentionally,  the  greatest 
practical  satire  on  the  calling  system  that  I  ever  wit 
nessed  ;  and  made  me  blush  for  the  servility,  as  well 
as  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the  spiller  who  was  guilty 
of  it.  Such  violations  of  propriety,  in  obsequious 
flattery  of  the  public,  are  "  villainous,  and  show  a  piti 
ful  ambition  in  the  fool  who  uses  it !  " 


The  interval  between  this  time  and  October,  when 
I  was  to  make  my  entree  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre, 
I  filled  up  by  an  excursion,  on  horseback,  to  St. 
Leonard's,  a  delightful  watering-place  on  the  south 
coast  of  England  ;  which  I  recommend  to  any  health- 
seekers  from  this  country,  who  desire  fine  air  and  the 
best  of  sea-bathing.  There  is,  too,  a  capital  hotel 
there,  which  has  been  patronized  by  royal  personages 
(I  know  this  is  always  a  recommendation  to  my 
republican  fellow-citizens),  and  by  the  aristocracy  in 
general ;  I  mean  the  Royal  Victoria  Hotel,  admirably 
situated,  and  capitally  conducted. 

From  St.  Leonard's  I  rode  to  Brighton,  the  fashion 
able  watering-place,  as  crowded  as  London,  in  the 
season  ;  and  where  there  is,  perhaps,  the  best  hotel  in 


262  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  world — the  Bedford  ;  thence  to  Arundel,  a  pretty 
little  town,  with  Arundel  castle  on  its  skirt ;  thence 
tp  Portsmouth,  the  most  strongly  fortiiied  place  on 
the  south  coast ;  and  thence  to  Southampton.  From 
Southampton  I  crossed  over,  with  my  horse,  to  Cowes 
(Isle  of  Wight) ;  thence,  passing  the  Queen's  residence, 
Osborne,  I  rode  to  the  Sandrock  hotel,  fifteen  miles 
distant,  near  Niton,  five  miles  from  Ventnor,  on  the 
south  of  the  island,  and  arrived  wet  to  the  skin  ;  having 
ridden  the  last  ten  miles  in  a  drenching  rain  :  but 
a  good  bed,  dry  clothes  (my  portmanteau,  which,  in 
these  equestrian  trips,  I  always  send  on  ahead  by 
rail,  had  arrived  before  me),  and  a  good  dinner,  with 
a  bottle  of  nearly  the  best  claret  I  ever  tasted,  soon 
set  me  to  rights. 

When  I  inquired  of  Mrs.  Kent,  the  landlady  of 
Sandrock  hotel,  which,  by-the-bye,  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque,  and,  at  the  same  time,  most  comfortable 
little  country  inns  in  England — a  rustic,  cottage-look 
ing  house,  backed  by  the  high  cliff  under  which  it 
seems  to  shelter;  with  a  woodbine-covered  porch,  and 
a  sloping  lawn,  green  as  an  emerald,  bordered  with 
flower-beds,  and  looking  out  on  the  English  channel — 
when  I  inquired  of  the  landlady  how  she  happened 
to  have  so  fine  a  bottle  of  claret  (Lafitte,  which  must 
have  been  at  least  fifteen  or  twenty  years  old),  she 
told  me  it  was  laid  in  by  her  late  husband,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Princess  Victoria  (the  present  Queen) 
and  her  mother,  the  Duchess  of  Kent,  and  suite,  stop 
ping  at  this  house,  on  their  tour  through  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  about  fifteen  or  more  years  before  ;  which  suffi 
ciently  accounted  for  the  exquisite  flavor  thereof.  It 


A   MODERN    CLEOPATRA.  263 

was  charged  in  the  bill  the  reasonable  price  of  nine 
shillings  sterling,  about  $2,25.     It  could  not  be  bought . 
in  this  country  under  §5  a  bottle,  if  at  all. 

This  trip  to  the  Isle  of  Wight  is  one  that  I  also 
recommend  to  my  friends  who  visit  England.  Cross 
over  from  Southampton  to  Cowes ;  thence  by  a  car 
riage  to  Newport — four  or  five  miles ;  visit  Carrisburg 
castle  ;  thence  to  Sandrock  hotel,  stay  there  a  day, 
rambling  about ;  visit  Black  Gang  chine,  a  wild  and 
picturesque  ravine  on  the  sea-side ;  the  next  day  go 
in  a  carriage* to  the  Needles;  return  via  Sandrock 
hotel,  dine  there,  and  go  on,  in  the  evening,  to  Yent- 
nor,  on  the  south  side  of  the  island ;  where  the  climate 
is  as  balmy  as  the  south  of  France,  and  the  sea-bath 
ing  excellent.  The  whole  excursion  need  not  occupy 
more  than  four  days,  and  is  truly  delightful. 

It  is  a  delicious  drive  from  the  Sandrock  hotel  to 
Yentnor ;  the  nearest  resemblance  to  which,  in  this 
country,  is  a  ride  I  am  very  fond  of  taking,  from  the 
Weehawken  ferry,  on  the  Jersey  side  of  the  Hudson, 
up  to  Fort  Lee.  But  the  Isle  of  Wight  is  wonderfully 
picturesque,  and  highly  cultivated;  the  climate  is 
balmy,  but  temperate ;  and  it  is  the  most  attractive 
spot  in  England  to  indulge  in  the  dolcefar  niente. 

At  the  Sandrock  hotel  I  met,  I  think,  the  finest 
woman  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Miss  Annie  Costello 
was  her  name,  by  inheritance  or  adoption,  I  know  not 
which ;  but,  at  that  particular  time,  she  was  travelling 
under  the  highly  romantic  name  of  Mrs.  Brown  ;  her 
compagnon  de  voyage  being  a  gentleman  who  tempo 
rarily  sported  that  distinguished  and  un-identifiable 
cognomen.  She  was,  I  discovered,  one  of  that 


264  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

numerous  class  of  femmes  entretenues  in  England, 
so  remarkable  for  their  magnificent  and  voluptuous 
beauty.  She  was  above  the  middle  size,  splendidly 
proportioned,  with  brilliant  dark  eyes,  a  brunette  com 
plexion,  rose-tinged  on  the  cheek,  luxuriant  dark 
brown  hair,  superb  shoulders  and  bust,  with  the 
roundest  and  finest  waist  I  ever  saw.  She  was  a 
grand  Venus!  I  found  she  was  possessed  with  an 
ardent  ambition  for  the  stage,  and  was  desirous  of 
placing  herself  under  my  tuition.  I,  however,  de 
clined  the  dangerous  honor;  and  the* stage  lias  one 
bewitching  sin  the  less  upon  it. 

"  Of  such  stuff  our  dreams  are  made  ; " 

from  which  the  waking  is  so  terrible.  Her  protector 
was  a  young  man,  not  over  twenty-five  years  of  age ; 
not  a  fellow  of  much  mark  or  likelihood,  but  he  was 
evidently  given  up,  body  and  soul,  to  the  influence  of 
her  all-conquering  beauty,  and  the  result  would  pro 
bably  be  his  ruin !  It  was  a  miniature  edition  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra — friends,  family,  reputation? 
fortune,  were  nought  to  him ;  her  smile  was  worth 
them  all ;  and 

"  Her  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  him." 

Old  Damas  says  well : 

"  0  !  woman,  woman,  thou  art  the  author  of  such  a  book  of 
follies  in  a  man,  that  it  would  need  the  tears  of  all  the  angels  to 
wash  the  record  out !  " 


KE-APPEARANCE   IN   LONDON.  265 


XVI. 

KEAPPEABANCE  in  London,  after  Eleven  Years'  Absence— 1853-5— Hamlet  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre— Tho  Company— Remarks  on  Hamlet— Hamlet's  age— A 
Leading  Actress  of  the  Present  Day— A  New  Play— Siffie— The  Duchess  Elea- 
vour— Town  and  Country— London  Assurance— Lady  Gay  a  Miss— New  Com 
edy,  "  Knights  of  the  Bound  Table" — Scene  from  it — Spanish  Dancers — DOUGLAS 
JEEKOLD — Death  of  Mrs.  FITZWILLIAM — An  Ingenious  Literary  Trick — "Foreign 
Airs  and  Native  Graces" — Result  of  Experience  at  the  Haymarket — St.  James' 
Theatre — "  King's  Rival " — Mrs.  SEYMOUR'S  Nell  Gwynne — The  Garrick  Club — 
A  Dinner  at  the  Mansion  House — Mr.  BUCHANAN  on  British  Institutions — 
Bath— Paris— Return  to  the  United  States— Marriage— A  Reminiscence  of  the 
Hon.  RUFUS  CHOATE. 

IN  my  note-book  of  the  25th  October,  1853,  I  find 
this  memorandum : — 

"  Going  to  reappear  in  London  after  eleven  years'  absence, 
without  knowing  a  single  person  connected  with  the  London 
Press,  except  Douglas  Jerrold.  By  f  not  knowing,'  I  mean  not 
knowing  so  much  as  to  say,  '  How  d'ye  do  ? '  to,  nor  have  I  taken 
steps,  of  any  kind,  to  secure  a  favorable  judgment.  Let  us  see 
the  result." 

On  the  24th  October,  Mr.  Buckstone  re-opened  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  newly  decorated  and  embellished, 
with  the  comedy  of  "A  Cure  for  Love,"  and  "  The 
Beggars'  Opera ;  "  and,  on  the  following  night,  I  made 
my  entree  in  the  character  of  Hamlet,  with  only  one 
rehearsal,  and  with  a  company  whose  forte  was  de 
cidedly  not  tragedy.  Indeed,  I  do  not  remember  ever 
12 


266  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

to  have  seen,  at  any  respectable  theatre,  so  weak  a 
cast  of  the  play  as  ours  was,  in  many  respects.  There 
was  no  efficient  "  heavy  lady "  in  the  company — a 
cheering  circumstance  to  start  with  !  The  Queen  was, 
consequently,  undertaken — with  great  kindness  and 
courage, — by  a  young  lady  of  fine  figure,  and  consider 
able  personal  attractions,  whose  appropriate  and  accus 
tomed  province  was  genteel  comedy, — gay  widows 
in  farces,  and  sprightly  intrigantes,  generally, — not 
exactly  the  wood  from  which  Queens  in  "  Hamlet " 
are  made !  I  might,  indeed,  have  well  exclaimed, 

"  No  more  like  my  mother 
Than  I  to  Hercules  !  " 

Horatio  was  very  weak ;  being  confided  to  a  gentle 
man  who  had  never  before  acted  in  the  play ;  nor,  as 
he  candidly  confessed,  had  even  seen  it  acted  !  His 
regular  business  was  foplings  in  comedy  and  farces ; 
his  general  style  was  of  the  lightest  and  flimsiest  sub 
stance  ;  consequently,  Horatio  was  a  dead  weight  on 
him.  The  Ghost,  fortunately,  was  steady,  careful,  and 
respectable ;  Mr.  Howe  (the  Quaker,  as  he  was  called, 
from  his  family  having,  I  believe,  belonged  to  the 
Society  of  Friends ;  and  he  is  the  only  instance  that 
I  know  of,  of  a  Quaker's  having  taken  to  the  stage), 
was  never  any  thing  less,  in  the  multiplicity  of  charac 
ters  assigned  to  him.  The  strength  of  the  cast  lay  in 
the  Polonius  of  Mr.  Chippendale — who  was  also  stage- 
manager — the  Grave-digger  of  Mr.  Compton,  and  the 
Ophelia  of  Miss  Louisa  Howard.  The  Laertes  was  a 
novice,  and  more  unskilful  even  than  the  Laertes-es 
usually  are — which  is  saying  much — in  the  use  of  the 


HAYMAEKET    THEATRE.  267 

foil.  This,  considering  that  the  fencing-match  in  the 
fifth  act  is  a  main  feature,  and  that  on  its  execution, 
well  or  ill,  depends,  in  great  measure,  the  successful 
or  unsuccessful  winding-up  of  the  play,  was  a  partic 
ularly  encouraging  prospect  for  me  !  Luckily,  all, 
even  the  fencing-bout,  passed  off  without  any  glaring 
mishap  ;  and  the  Queen,  however  deficient  in  weight, 
was  letter-perfect  in  text,  and  scrupulously  exact  in 
the  business  of  the  scene ;  as,  indeed,  Mrs.  Bucking 
ham  always  was.  I  was  warmly  received,  and 
liberally  applauded ;  though  it  was  my  first  appear 
ance  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  and  that  audience  is, 
proverbially,  very  self-controlling  in  its  outward  dis 
play  of  approbation. 

Mr.  Buckstone,  the  manager,  came  and  congratu 
lated  me  on  my  success  at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  as 
did  the  performers  generally ;  and  a  friend,  H.  Holl — a 
kind,  good-natured  fellow  as  ever  breathed,  and  whom 
every  one  likes — came  round  from  the  front,  to  con 
firm  by  his  report,  in  detail,  the  verdict  which  the 
audience  had  rendered  by  their  applause.  My  father, 
as  Holl  informed  me,  and  as  I  had  myself  observed, 
was  one  of  the  auditory ;  deeply  attentive,  Holl  said, 
silent,  abstracted,  wholly  in  the  play ;  he,  too,  was 
content  with  me,  and  earnest  in  his  approbation — as 
Holl  reported. 

So,  of  course,  I  went  on  to  my  fifth  act  with  re 
newed  spirits.  Even  the  fencing-bout  went  off  toler 
ably  well,  and  I  received  a  thundering  call  at  the  fall 
of  the  curtain. 

Mr.  Buckstone  was  pleased  to  make  the  following 
announcement  in  the  bills  and  advertisements  of  the 
day:— 


268  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  Mr.  George  Vandenhoff  having,  on  his  first  appearance,  cre 
ated  a  sensation  equal  to  that  made  by  any  tragedian  of  the  day, 
will  repeat  the  character  of  Hamlet  on  Thursday  and  Monday 
next ; » 

and  the  Times,  and  the  press  generally,  upheld  the 
manager's  judgment. 

The  following  is  the  London  Morning  Post's  no 
tice  (26th  October,  1853) : 

HAYMARKET  THEATRE. — DEBUT  OF  MR.  GEORGE  VANDENHOFF. 
— If  Mr.  Vandenhoff  has  not  gained  fame  and  money  from  our 
transatlantic  brethren,  he  has  certainly  acquired  experience  and 
improvement  in  their  land,  and  to  such  an  extent  as  to  make  us 
doubt  his  identity  with  the  gentleman  who  some  years  since  per 
formed  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  under  the  management  of 
Madame  Vestris. 

We  have  no  hesitation  in  declaring  Mr.  Vandenhoff 's  Hamlet 
to  be  not  only  by  many  degrees  the  best  at  present  on  the  stage, 
but  also  better  than  any  that  has  been  seen  since  the  days  of  John 
Kemble.  What  he  may  make  of  other  Shaksperean  characters, 
requiring  greater  energy,  passion,  physical,  power  and  melo 
dramatic  excitement,  we  are  not  prepared  to  say ;  but  of  this  we 
are  sure,  that  his  picture  of  the  contemplative,  philosophical,  ele 
gant  Prince  of  Denmark,  who  is  only  goaded  into  action  by  a 
supernatural  visitation,  and  the  pressure  of  terrible  and  extraor 
dinary  circumstances,  could  not  possibly  be  surpassed.  In  this 
age  of  strong  accents  and  exaggeration,  especially  in  theatrical 
matters,  it  is  truly  refreshing  to  meet  with  an  actor  who  never 
"  o'ersteps  the  modesty  of  nature  " — who  moves  with  gentleman 
like  ease  and  grace  upon  the  stage,  and  speaks  the  language  of 
Shakspere  with  just  emphasis  and  purity.  Such  is  Mr.  George 
Vandenhoff;  but  his  merits  do  not  stop  here,  for  he  is  not  merely  a 
correct  performer,  but  a  great  one.  He  not  only  satisfies  us,  but 
he  delights  us.  First,  by  his  really  beautiful  level  speaking, 
which  is  truly  "  nature  to  advantage  dressed."  This,  at  once, 
honorably  distinguishes  him  from  all  contemporary  tragedians, 


CEITICISM   ON   HAMLET.  269 

not  one  of  whom  can  make  any  effect  except  in  passages  of  great 
excitement,  where  the  delineation  of  strong  passions  may  justify 
a  spasmodic  style  ol'  expression.  Secondly,  he  charms  us  by  the 
exquisite  delicacy  he  imparts  to  his  dramatic  picture,  and  the 
masterly  finish  of  its  details :  thirdly,  by  the  sympathetic  glow 
of  feeling  emanating  from  the  heart — the  genial,  steadily-burn 
ing  poetic  fire  which  everywhere  vivifies  his  conceptions,  and 
warms  by  its  electric  power  the  coldest  of  his  auditors  into  admi 
ration.  Add  to  these,  the  influence  of  a  very  agreeable  voice,  a 
commanding  figure,  most  graceful  gestures,  and  an  expressive 
countenance,  and  a  fair  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  very  remark 
able  qualities  of  Mr.  Vandenhoff  as  exhibited  on  this  occasion. 
We  have  preferred  giving  a  general  sketch  of  the  debutant's 
powers  to  selecting  special  portions  of  his  performance  for  praise. 
Where  all  was  so  evenly  good,  where  the  Horatian  precept — 

"  Denique  sit  quod  vis  simplex  duntaxat  et  unum," 

was  so  finely  exemplified,  such  a  course  would  be  scarcely  just. 

Mr.  Vandenhoff  was  warmly  applauded  throughout,  and 
called  for  with  enthusiasm  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

The  following  is  the  criticism  of  the  Sunday 
Times,  Oct.  30th : 

Mr.  G.  VANDENHOFF'S  HAMLET. — Mr.  George  Vandenhoff,  the 
son  of  the  celebrated  tragedian,  who  some  years  since  made  his 
metropolitan  debut  at  Covent  Garden,  during  the  Vestris  man 
agement,  in  the  character  of  Leon,  in  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a 
Wife,  appeared  on  the  Hayinarket  boards,  for  the  first  time,  on 
Tuesday  evening,  after  a  long  absence  in  the  United  States,  where 
he  has  gathered  histrionic  laurels  in  abundance.  The  character 
selected  for  his  second  entrance  to  the  English  stage  was  Hamlet, 
for  which  nature  seems  to  have  especially  fitted  him  by  bestow 
ing  upon  him  a  graceful  and  commanding  figure,  fine  expressive 
features,  an  intellectual  head,  a  penetrating  eye,  and  a  voice  ca 
pable  of  being  modulated  according  to  the  passion  or  emotion  to 
be  delineated.  The  great  merit  of  Mr.  Vandenhoff  in  the  charac- 


270  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ter  is  the  skilful  manner  in  which  he  unfolds  it  without  destroy 
ing  its  delicate  texture.  All  his  care  seems  to  be  to  render 
Hamlet  such  as  Shakspere  certainly  intended — gentle,  contem 
plative,  and  philosophic,  with  a  disposition  naturally  warm  and 
generous,  stimulated  by  a  solemn  supernatural  revelation  to  an 
act  of  cruel  vengeance,  from  which  his  soul  recoils.  It  is  the 
mind,  and  not  the  passions  of  Hamlet,  that  is  excited ;  he  can 
moralize  and  weigh  to  the  minutest  grain  questions  of  a  present 
and  future  state,  and  can  speculate  with  philosophic  exactness 
upon  the  justness  and  morality  of  his  terrible  mission.  No  man 
whose  passions  were  highly  wrought  upon  could  so  abstract  his 
reasoning  faculties.  Taking  this  view  of  the  character,  we  en 
tirely  agree  with  Mr.  Vandenhoff  in  what  may  be  termed  the 
subdued  and  intellectual  reading  he  gave  of  it.  The  total  absence 
of  all  clap-trap  or  trickery,  either  in  voice  or  action,  and  the  con 
summate  art  with  which,  by  the  judicious  reading  of  the  part,  he 
developed  all  its  beauties,  cannot  be  too  highly  commended.  We 
admit  that  to  ears  accustomed — we  will  not  say  attuned — to  the 
violence  of  some  performers,  or  to  exaggerated  and  stagey  points 
— as  far  removed  from  dramatic  truth  as  they  are  from  nature — 
the  reflective  and  poetic  style  of  Mr.  George  Vandenhoff  may  ap 
pear  insipid.  We  should  as  soon  expect  a  confirmed  brandy- 
drinker  to  relish  the  mild  but  generous  warmth  of  pure  claret. 
That  Mr.  G.  Vandenhoff  possesses  power,  as  well  as  tenderness 
and  pathos,  we  need  but  refer  to  his  scene  with  the  Queen  in  the 
closet,  the  play-scene  and  his  delivery  of  the  passionate  soliloquy, 
"  0,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! "  His  advice  to  the 
players  was  an  admirable  combination  of  the  familiar  with  the 
didactic  style.  Altogether,  we  do  not  remember  any  Hamlet  of 
late  years  with  whom  we  were  so  well  pleased. 

The  Illustrated  London  News  thus  wrote  : 

HAYMARKET  THEATRE. — On  Tuesday  Hamlet  was  performed 
for  the  purpose  of  testing  the  claims  of  Mr.  George  Vandenhoff 
to  the  tragic  lead  of  the  company,  and  the  trial  was  perfectly 
satisfactory.  During  the  Vestris  management  of  Covent  Garden, 


THE   TIMES.  271 

Mr.  Tandenhoff  gave  promise  of  perhaps  more  power  than  he  now 
evinces,  but  was  crude  in  style ;  when  he  left  us  altogether  for 
America,  where  by  practice  he  has  become  evidently  a  finished  art 
ist.  His  Hamlet  is  certainly  an  elegant,  and,  in  some  situations,  a 
highly  wrought  piece  of  acting.  His  success  was  incontroverti 
ble  ;  and  an  honorable  future  awaits  his  exertions. 

Finally,  the  Thunderer  pronounced  its  oracular 
sentence.  The  following  extract  is  from  THE  TIMES 
(Wednesday,  Oct.  26,  1853) : 

HAYMARKET  THEATEE. — Playgoers  of  a  dozen  years'  standing 
may  recollect  Mr.  George  Vandenhoff  (elder  son  of  the  Mr.  Van- 
denhoff ).  who  made  his  debut  at  Covent  Garden,  during  the  man 
agement  of  Madame  Vestris,  as  Leon  in  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a 
Wife.  He  remained  at  that  house  for  a  season  or  two,  playing 
the  principal  parts  in  several  new  and  revived  pieces,  and  was 
generally  deemed  a  serviceable  actor. 

So  much  has  happened,  and  such  changes  have  taken  place 
since  the  management  to  which  we  have  referred,  that  Mr.  George 
VandenhofF  had  left  no  distinct  impression  on  the  memory,  and 
when  he  re-appeared  last  night  at  the  Haymarket,  after  a  long 
absence  in  America,  he  had  the  reception  of  a  completely  new 
actor,  and  he  has  certainly  re-introduced  himself  to  the  London 
public  in  a  very  creditable  manner.  Hamlet — the  character  which, 
like  so  many  young  tragedians,  he  has  chosen  for  his  opening — 
does  not,  indeed,  receive  any  new  light  from  his  interpretation, 
which  he  has  based  on  long-established  precedents,  but  never 
theless  it  is  marked  by  a  combination  of  elegance  and  carefulness 
which  is  not  often  to  be  found.  If  he  created  no  great  astonish 
ment  by  what  he  did,  he  is  entitled  to  great  praise  for  what  he 
avoided  ;  for  while,  as  we  have  said,  his  acting  was  founded  on  the 
conventional  routine,  he  shunned  all  the  old  conventional  tricks. 
By  saying  that  he  gives  a  castigated  edition  of  the  established 
Hamlet,  we  should  perhaps  convey  the  most  accurate  impression 
of  his  performance. 

Reading  with  the  utmost  correctness,  elegant  in  his  move- 


272  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

ments,  accomplished  in  the  externals  of  histrionic  art,  and  endowed 
with  considerable  advantages  of  person  and  voi«  (the  latter  being 
clear,  though  soft),  Mr.  George  VandenhofFs  forte  seems  to  lie 
rather  in  the  colloquial  and  gently  pathetic,  than  in  the  violently 
passionate,  and  his  elocution  is  marked  less  by  force  than  by 
refinement.  At  the  same  time  some  situations,  particularly  the 
play-scene,  were  powerfully  worked  up,  and  may  perhaps  justify 
the  friends  of  Mr.  G.  Vandenhoff  in  forming  sanguine  hopes  of 
future  greatness.  His  performance  throughout  was  heard  with 
evident  approbation,  and  he  was  called  with  loud  applause  at  the 
end  of  the  play. 

The  reader  will,  I  trust,  pardon  me  for  making 
these  extracts.  As  my  connection  with  the  stage  was 
now  nearing  its  close,  I  am  naturally  ambitious  to 
leave  some  record  of  what  was  the  opinion  of  the 
critics  on  my  mature  efforts  ;  so  as,  in  some  measure, 
to  justify  the  sudden  step  I  took  in  abandoning  the 
glorious  uncertainty  of  the  law,  for  the  still  greater, 
and  perhaps  more  glorious  uncertainty  of  the  stage. 

May  I  be  allowed  to  add  that  any  credit  I  may 
have  obtained  by  my  performance  of  Hamlet,  I  owe 
simply  to  confidence  in  Shakspere — to  a  conviction 
that  he  was,  and  is,  sufficient  for  himself.  What  I 
mean  to  express  is,  that  Hamlet  is  able  to  act  out 
himself  if  the  actor  will  trust  to  Shakspere  for  doing 
it ;  if  he  will  not  "  over-do  "  the  master's  work,  but 
"  use  all  gently,"  and  not  overlay  a  perfect  picture 
of  imperfect  humanity  with  stage-trick,  strained  ef 
fect,  extravagant  attitude,  and  what  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury,  in  his  criticism  on  the  play,  happily  calls  "  blus 
tering  heroism."  There  is  no  room  for  any  of  this  in 
Hamlet,  as  I  conceive  it ;  except  in  the  one  scene 
with  Laertes  at  Ophelia's  grave — and  for  his  violence 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF    HAMLET.  273 

there,  the  philosophic  prince  expresses  his"  sorrow,  and 
excuses  it  to  Horatio,  on  the  ground  that  he  was  in 

"  a  towering  passion, — 

except  in  this  instance,  violence  and  rant  are  en 
tirely  misplaced.  The  more  simply  the  character  is 
presented  to  the  audience,  the  more  thoroughly  will 
the  actor's  impersonation  of  this  extraordinary  meta 
physical  epitome  of  the  weaknesses  of  humanity  in 
one  of  its  noblest  types,  carry  out  the  master's  design, 
and  win  its  way  to  the  popular  heart.  I  am  far  from 
intimating  that  I  have  succeeded  in  this,  myself;  but 
I  have  aimed  at  it.  It  is  not  because  Hamlet  is  a  hero 
that  we  love  him,  and  sympathize  with  him  so  inti 
mately  in  every  situation  and  every  scene  ;  it  is,  ra 
ther,  because,  with  the  highest  motives,  the  most  ele 
vated  aspirations,  and  the  most  accomplished  intellect, 
he  is  so  little  of  a  hero  in  action,  that  we  feel  his  ap 
proximation  to  ourselves ;  and  our  vanity  and  self- 
love  are  flattered  by  recognizing  the  reflection  of  our 
own  imperfections  and  irresoluteness,  in  so  grand,  so 
pure,  so  refined  a  mirror.  In  sympathizing  with 
Hamlet,  we  are  paying  court  to  ourselves,  and  find 
ing  a  splendid  apology  for  our  own  short-comings. 
Now  nothing  can  be  less  in  harmony  with  such  a  con 
ception  than  "  blustering  heroism,"  in  "  the  'Ercles 
vein  "  of  inflated  tragedy.  This  is  to  throw  the  robes 
of  a  Flayer-King  over  the  shoulders  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere ;  or  to  dress  up  the  Venus  de  Medici  in 
modern  flounces,  berthas,  Yalenciennes  lace,  a  blaze 
of  jewelry,  and  the  expansive  extravagance  of  crino 
line! 

12* 


274  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

It  may  not  be  inopportune,  in  this  place,  to  make 
a  remark  on  a  point  that  is  often  debated,  and  which, 
I  think,  I  have  never  yet  seen  settled  by  the  critics : 
I  mean  the  question  of  Hamlet's  age.  Was  he  a 
young,  or  a  middle-aged,  man  ? 

Opinions,  I  find,  on  reading  Hazlitt  and  other 
critics,  incline  both  ways :  some  imagine  that  the 
Prince  of  Denmark  was  a  very  young  man,  scarcely 
of  full  age  ;  others,  more  rationally,  and  more  consist 
ently  with  the  evidences  of  matured  intellect,  and 
the  reflective  self-examination  which  his  conversation 
and  his  soliloquies  display,  believe  Hamlet  to  have 
arrived  at  the  full  maturity  of  manhood,  both  physi 
cally  and  intellectually.  Still,  the  question  seems  to 
remain  in  some  doubt.  Let  us  see  if  we  can  set 
tle  it, 

In  the  first  place,  I  think,  we  must  admit  that 
the  opinion,  or  idea,  of  Hamlet's  being  quite  a  young 
man,  is  entirely  incompatible  with  the  philosophic 
discipline  of  his  mind,  its  high  intellectual  culture, 
its  discursive  power  of  thought,  its  metaphysical 
subtlety,  its  polish,  its  exquisite  refinement.  What 
young  man,  just  fresh  from  College,  that  any  of  us 
have  ever  known  or  heard  of,  could  ever  have  thought 
the  soliloquy  of 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be  ?  " 

What  young  man  was  ever  capable  of  designing,  and 
building  up  that  soliloquy,  in  its  solid  and  impreg 
nable  sequence  of  argumentative  construction  ;  and  of 
combining  in  its  eloquent  expression  by  language,  the 
exactest  reasoning  and  the  highest  sentiment ;  such 


HAMLET'S  AGE.  275 

as  are  blended — with  the  power  of  an  orator,  the 
severity  of  a  logician,  and  the  imagination  of  a  poet — 
in  that  wonderful  outpouring  of  meditative  abstrac 
tion? 

Again,  where  is  the  young  man  of  so  correct  a 
judgment,  so  refined  a  taste,  such  subtle  critical 
acumen,  or  nicety  of  discrimination,  as  to  extem 
porize,  from  the  stores  of  his  experience  and  observa 
tion,  that  elaborate  epitome  of  the  actor's  art,  and  the 
purposes  of  the  stage,  contained  in  the  "  Instructions 
to  the  Players?" 

I  have  never  met  that  young  man  yet,  who  was 
capable  of  this ;  if  such  a  one  there  be,  I  would  go  a 
long  way  to  see  him ! — The  argument  is,  that  Shak- 
spere  would  not  have  put  those  passages  into  the  mouth 
of  Hamlet,  but  that  Hamlet  is  supposed  to  be  mature 
in  years  and  judgment. 

Then,  it  is  scarcely  possible  that  any  young  man, 
who  had  not  long  made  his  debut  at  court,  and  in  the 
world,  could  have  attained — prince  though  he  might 
be — to  so  distinguished  a  position,  by  his  accomplish 
ments,  and  elegance  of  mind  and  manners,  as  to  merit 
the  high  eulogium  of  possessing  the  combination  of 
excelling  and  diverse  qualities,  comprised  in  this 
description  of  Hamlet : 

"  The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword; 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 
The  observed  of  all  observers  :  " 

this  all  implies  maturity  of  power,  and  age.  This 
idea  is  confirmed  by  the  line  that  folio ws;  a  little 
further  on,  in  this  description  ;  in  which  Ophelia 
laments 


276  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  That  unmatch'd  form,  and  feature  of  blown  youth, 
Blasted  with  ecstasy." 

The  expression  "  blown  youth,"  I  think,  clearly  indi 
cates  Hamlet's  age  to  be  in  the  maturity  of  manhood  ; 
when  the  rose  of  youth  is  full-blown  ;  not  in  its  early 
opening,  but  in  its  full  bloom  :  that  is  to  say,  about 
thirty  years  of  age.  And  this  I  take  to  be  the  very 
age  at  which  we  see  him. 

Do  you  start  at  this,  reader  ?  does  this  theory  seem 
to  rob  Hamlet  of  some  of  his  romantic  attraction,  by 
setting  too  many  years  on  his  head,  and  by  robbing 
him  of  the  first  blush,  and  grace  of  opening  manhood? 

Let  us  see  if  I  cannot  establish  my  position  by  the 
text  of  Shakspere.  In  the  first  scene  of  the  fifth  act, 
when  Hamlet  has  returned  from  England;  in  his 
dialogue  with  the  grave-digger,  occur  these  questions 
and  answers : 

Hamlet.  How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

Clown.  Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came  to 't  that  day  that 
our  last  king  Hamlet  o'ercame  Fortinbras. 

Samlet.  How  long  is  that  since  ? 

Clown.  Cannot  you  tell  that?  every  fool  can  tell  that :  It  was 
the  very  day  that  young  Samlet  was  born :  he  that  was  mad,  and 
sent  into  England. 

Hamlet.  How  came  he  mad  ? 

Clown.  Very  strangely,  they  say 

Hamlet.  How  strangely  ? 

Clown.  Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Hamlet.  Upon  what  ground  ? 

Clown.  Why,  here  in  Denmark.  /  have  been  sexton  here, 
man  and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Thus,  we  find   that  the  Clown  has  been  a  grave- 


HAMLET'S  AGE.  277 

maker  thirty  years ;  and  that  he  came  to  it  "  the  very 
day  that  young  Hainlet  was  born."  (The  Clown  calls 
him  young  Hamlet  in  contradistinction  to  the  late  king, 
his  father,  of  the  same  name.)  Hence,  it  is  sufficiently 
well-established  that,  at  this  period  of  the  play,  Ham 
let  is  thirty  years  of  age. 

It  may  be  reasonably  asked,  if  it  may  not  be  con 
sidered,  that  this  play  occupies  several  years,  perhaps, 
in  the  action ;  and,  if  so,  was  not  Hamlet  quite  a 
young  man  at  the  commencement  of  the  play?  And 
the  line  in  the  original  text — never  given  on  the  stage 
— in  the  mouth  of  the  King  to  Hamlet — 

"  For  your  intent 

In  going  back  to  school  in  Wittenberg, 
It  is  most  retrograde  to  our  desire," — 

may  be  put  forward  to  show  that  the  Prince  had  not 
even  finished  his  education ;  and  therefore  certainly 
could  not  have  attained  thirty  years  of  age. 

But  I  do  not  construe  the  expression  "  going  back 
to  school  in  Wittenberg,"  to  mean,  going  back  as  a 
scholar,  an  alumnus,  for  the  purpose  of  continuing 
his  studies.  It  is  not  unusual  at  this  day,  in  England, 
for  a  man  who  has  taken  his  degrees,  and  holds  a 
fellowship  at  one  of  the  Universities,  to  retire  occa 
sionally,  for  a  period,  to  his  college,  under  the  pressure 
of  grief,  anxiety  of  mind,  or  great  reverse  of  fortune, 
or  even  with  a  desire  for  contemplative  study  and 
retreat.  In  this  sense,  Hamlet,  in  grief  at  his  father's 
sudden  death,  and  indignant  at  his  own  exclusion 
from  the  throne  by  the  usurpation  of  his  uncle,  on  his 
marriage  with  the  Queen, — in  this  view,  Hamlet, 


278  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

"  weary  of  the  world,"  which,  in  the  affliction  of  his 
mind,  seems  to  him  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable, 
might,  even  at  thirty  years  of  age,  not  unnaturally 
thirst  for  the  retirement  of  his  college,  and  the  con 
solations  of  philosophy  and  study. 

I  do  not  consider  that  the  action  of  the  play  occu 
pies  more  than  six  months,  or  a  year  at  the  outside. 
For,  in  the  first  act,  Laertes  goes  to  France,  for  the 
purpose  of  a  visit  of  pleasure  merely ;  such  a  visit  as 
might  fill  up  six  months,  or  a  year  at  the  most ;  and 
we  do  not  hear  of  his  coming  back,  till  his  father 
Polonius  has  been  killed  by  Hamlet ;  the  news  of 
which  brings  him  back  to  Denmark  suddenly ;  prob 
ably,  therefore,  before  the  intended  period  of  his 
visit  had  expired. 

ISTor  can  we  think  Ophelia  was  more  than  eighteen 
or  twenty  years  of  age  when  she  dies ;  which  age  she 
must  have  considerably  passed, — in  fact,  she  must 
have  been  entering  the  respectable  stage  of  old-maid 
enhood, — if  Hamlet  is  taken  to  have  been  eighteen 
or  twenty  years  of  age  in  the  first  act,  and  thirty  when 
he  stands  by  Ophelia's  grave. 

I  therefore  conclude  that  Hamlet's  age  is  thirty, 
in  the  fifth  act ;  and  not  much  less — perhaps,  six 
months,  or  a  year — at  the  opening  of  the  play.  What 
say  you,  reader  ? 


It  was  quite  clear  to  me  and  to  everybody,  from 
the  specimen  exhibited  in  "  Hamlet,"  that  tragedy 
was  not  the  forte  of  the  Haymarket  company.  The 
partofEvelyn,inBulwer's  admirable  comedy  of  Money, 


MONEY.  279 

was  therefore  fixed  upon  for  my  second  appearance  ; 
and  the  comedy  being  well  cast,  was  repeated  six 
times  during  the  next  fortnight,  and  several  times  af 
terwards,  during  the  season.  I  received  many  com 
pliments  on  my  performance  of  Evelyn,  both  from  the 
actors,  and  the  public  press.  The  most  valued  of  all 
was  my  father's  expression  of  satisfaction,  communi 
cated  to  me  by  my  mother.  He  had  said,  she  told 
me,  that  "it  was  as  good  as  the  Hamlet ;  and  he  could 
not  say  more."  Conceive  my  delight  at  hearing  this, 
when  I  recollected  how  dreadfully  my  father  had 
been  disappointed  by  my  change  of  profession,  and 
how  little  hope  he  had  entertained  of  my  attaining 
eminence  in  a  pursuit  adopted  as  an  after-thought, 
without  the  advantage  of  a  regular  apprenticeship  in 
early  life.  His  present  approbation  was  therefore 
doubly  valued  by  me. 

The  following  notice  of  Evelyn,  in  a  London  lit 
erary  weekly,  gratified  me,  I  think,  as  much  as  any 
critical  eulogium  I  received ;  and  I  pray  the  reader's 
indulgence  for  quoting  it : 

HAYMAEKET  THEATRE. — Bulwer's  comedy  of  Money  was  pro 
duced  at  this  theatre  on  Wednesday  last,  Mr.  George  Vandenhoff 
sustaining  the  character  of  Evelyn.  Mr.  Vandenhoff 's  perform 
ance  of  this  character  is  chiefly  remarkable  for  ease  and  natural 
ness.  There  is  no  straining  after  effect — none  of  those  attempts 
to  draw  down  applause  by  loud  tones  and  violent  gestures,  which 
are  so  frequently  indulged  in  where  an  opportunity  permits.  Mr. 
Vandenhoff  appears  to  feel  that  he  was  acting  a  part  in  the  dran  a 
of  daily  life,  and  that  the  conventional  shouts  and  starts  of  the 
stage  would  be  out  of  place.  His  manner,  throughout  the  piece. 
was  that  of  a  well-educated  gentleman,  and  his  most  earnest  bursts 
of  passion  were  tempered  to  suit  the  situation  in  which  they  were 


280  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

displayed,  and  the  circumstances  by  which  they  were  produced. 
In  the  scene  at  the  club,  in  which  he  plays  with  such  seeming 
recklessness  with  Dudley  Smooth,  there  was  just  sufficient  exag 
geration  to  show  that  his  wild  demeanor  was  assumed,  and  yet 
sufficient  reality  to  indicate  that  Evelyn  was.  to  some  extent,  af 
fected  by  the  very  excitement  he  was  simulating.  Nothing  could 
be  more  truthful  than  Mr.  Vandenhoff's  acting  in  this  scene.  It 
completely  carried  the  audience  with  it,  and  proved,  beyond 
doubt,  that  his  performance  was  the  result  of  great  stud}1" — that, 
in  fact,  it  was  a  display  of  that  art  which  conceals  art.  In  his 
passionate  appeal  to  Georgina,  in  the  last  scene,  he  was  equally 
effective.  The  faltering  voice,  the  agitated  manner,  the  nervous, 
almost  frenzied  anxiety  with  which  he  listened  for  her  reply,  his 
whole  existence  seeming  to  depend  upon  the  few  words  she  might 
utter, — were  finely  contrasted  with  the  burst  of  sudden  joy  which 
followed  her  avowal  of  affection  for  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Mr.  Vandenhoff's  performance  of  Evelyn  places  him  in  the 
first  rank  as  a  performer  of  refined  comedy  ;  and  we  must  con 
gratulate  Mr.  Buckstone  upon  such  an  acquisition  to  his  com 
pany. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  Mr.  Buckstone,  as  Stout — that 
shadow  of  a  character  ?  Shall  we  say  that  he  was  the  very  em 
bodiment  of  parochial  pomposity,  refined  by  legislative  experience? 
We  might  say  this,  and  much  more;  but  we  fear  we  should  convey 
but  a  faint  idea  of  the  talent  and  infinite  humor  which  Mr.  Buck- 
stone  displayed.  Dress  and  manner  were  alike  admirable,  and 
whenever  his  round,  red,  and  good-humored  face  appeared  upon 
the  stage,  it  was  the  signal  for  a  burst  of  genuine  applause.  Mr. 
Compton,  as  Graves,  was  as  droll  as  usual,  but  was  badly  dressed, 
and  did  not  look  sufficiently  lugubrious  for  the  melancholy 
widower.  Mrs.  Fitzwilliam  was  not  Lady  Franklin,  but  was,  as 
she  always  is,  exceedingly  clever  and  artistic. 

Up  to  this  time,  the  regular  leading  actress  of  the 
theatre  had  been  incapacitated  by  illness  from  play 
ing  with  me;  but  Claude  in  the  "Lady  of  Lyons" 
being  selected  as  my  third  part,  I  had  the  full  benefit 
of  the  lady's  assistance  ! 


A   POKTRAIT.  281 

Imagine  my  recognizing  in  this  woman  of  some 
eight  and  thirty  years  of  age,  with  a  harsh  brassy 
voice,  a  person  brought  out  originally  to  the  United 
States,  fifteen  years  previously,  by  a  certain  Yankee 
Delineator*.  The  unenviable  reputation  which  she  en 
joyed  in  this  country,  she  had,  on  her  return  to  her 
own,  marvellously  well  kept  up  ;  being  now,  notori 
ously,  the  mistress  of  a  married  man,  who  was  nightly 
to  be  seen  in  the  private  stage-box  to  witness  her  per 
formances.  As  an  actress,  her  style  was  coarse,  her 
voice  dissonant,  and  her  manners  had  all  the  affecta 
tion  and  effrontery  combined,  that  usually  distinguish 
ladies  of  her  stamp.  Such  was  the  person  whom  I 
found  myself  doomed,  during  a  whole  season,  to  ad 
dress  on  the  stage  in  the  most  courteous  and  refined 
language  of  chaste  and  respectful  love ;  into  whose 
hackneyed  ear  I  was  to  breathe  the  most  impassioned 
vows,  and  whose  form  I  was  to  clasp  in  my  arms,  with 
the  ardor  of  a  knight,  and  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim 
at  the  shrine  of  a  virgin-saint !  It  was  the  greatest 
trial  I  ever  met  with  on  the  stage.  It  was  a  perpetual 
and  complete  desillusionnement,  eternally  meeting 
and  striking  down  my  enthusiasm  for  an  abstract 
ideal,  by  the  coarse,  common,  hard,  unpoetical,  un 
loveable  reality! 

It  was  impossible  to  imagine  that  metallic-voiced, 
bold-faced  woman,  the  gentle  Clara,  or  the  betrayed, 
heart-broken,  self-sacrificing  Pauline !  The  contra 
diction  was  too  glaring,  too  shocking ;  and  this  was 
the  penance  I  had  to  look  forward  to,  during  a  season 
of  about  thirty  weeks. 

Talent,  as  an  artist,  unless  costly  dresses  and  im- 


282  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

pregnable  assurance  constitute  talent,  she  had  none  ; 
none,  I  mean,  for  the  line  of  business  into  which  she 
was  thrust ;  she  would  have  made  a  good  soubrette,  of 
the  most  audacious  kind,  nothing  more.  Yet,  here  I 
found  her,  in  the  Hay  market  Theatre,  London,  by 
force  of  the  pressure  from  without  of  peculiar  in 
fluences,  occupying  the  position  that  women  of 
unblemished  purity  of  character,  as  well  as  of  high 
dramatic  genius,  had  hitherto  adorned  ! 

The  "  high  and  palmy  days  "  of  the  theatre  must 
be  gone  indeed,  when  such  a  person  occupied  such  a 
place.  For — however  other  situations,  in  the  theatrical 
profession,  may  have  been  filled  by  women  of  loose 
lives  and  sullied  reputations — the  position  of  leading 
actress,  at  a  leading  metropolitan  theatre,  had  hither 
to,  in  England,  at  least,  preserved  its  moral  eminence ; 
and  the  loves,  sufferings,  self-sacrifice,  and  heroism  of 
Juliet,  Belvidera,  Mrs.  Beverly,  had  grown  to  be  asso 
ciated  with  the  virtues  of  daily  life,  by  the  exemplary 
conduct  of  their  stage-representatives.  There  is 
something  revolting  to  the  feelings  in  seeing  such 
characters  filled  by  a  woman  of  known  licentious  and 
immoral  life ;  especially,  when  she  does  not  possess 
the  veil  of  genius  with  which  to  cover,  or,  at  least,  to 
soften  the  features  of  her  irregularities.  Characters 
that  have  been  hallowed  by  connection  with  the 
names  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  Miss  O'Keil,  Miss  Ellen  Tree, 
and  others,  whom  to  name  is  to  honor,  should  never 
be  degraded  and  defiled  by  the  low  and  unsympathiz- 
ing  personation,  or  rather,  travestie,  of  a  common 
intrigante. 

I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that  I  consider  the  fact  I 


HAYMAKKET    THEATRE.  283 

allude  to  as  the  most  fatal  evidence  of  the  decay  of 
the  drama  in  England  that  struck  my  mind.  Such 
outrages  on  public  decency,  and  taste,  merit  the  con 
tempt  and  neglect  which  they  incur ;  and  it  behoves 
a  decent  public  to  rebuke  them  by  their  continued 
absence. 


My  fourth  character  was  Benedick. 

CHAKLOTTE  CUSHMAN  was  with  us  for  a  portion  of 
the  season.  She  opened  in  Bianca  ;  I  declined 
playing  Fazio  ;  but  appeared  with  her  in  "  The 
Stranger  "  several  times,  and  as  the  Cardinal,  in 
"  Henry  the  Eighth,"  twice.  She  produced  a  piece  by 
CHORLEY,  (Mrs.  Hemans'  biographer,  and  the  musical 
critic  of  the  Athenceum,)  which  had  great  literary 
merit,  but  was  hissed  on  the  second  night,  and  so, 
failed,  to  Charlotte's  great  mortification  ;  for  she  had 
what  she  deemed  a  very  fine  part  in  it,  and  on  which, 
I  believe,  she  very  much  counted  for  great  success. 
On  the  reading  of  the  play  in  the  Green-Boom,  I  sur 
prised  her  and  the  author,  by  selecting  (as  the  terms 
of  my  engagement  gave  me  a  right  of  selection  in  all 
new  pieces)  the  character  of  an  old  roue,  gambler, 
thief,  and  assassin,  her  father ;  instead  of  the  part  of 
a  noble  count,  her  lover.  They  were  both  villains ; 
one  of  about  thirty,  the  other  of  about  six,  "  lengths ; " 
foreseeing  the  failure  of  the  piece,  I  chose  the  shorter 
of  the  two  knaves.  The  author  had  named  him  Bal- 
thasar ;  but,  as  that  was  a  very  undignified  appellation, 
associated,  in  dramatic  nomenclature,  with  servants 


284  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

and  torch-bearers,  et  hoc  genus  omne,  Mr.  Chorley 
very  kindly,  at  my  request,  dubbed  him  1'Incognito ; 
thus  shrouding  him  in  mystery.  As  I  said,  "  The 
Duchess  Eleanour  "  scarcely  lived  through  the  second 
night ;  a  volley  of  hisses  settled  her  fate,  in  the  fifth 
act ;  and  threw  Charlotte  Cushman  back  on  her  old 
fortune-teller,  Meg  Merrilies. 

Morton's  "  Town  and  Country  "  was  produced  for 
me  shortly  after,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  re 
peating  Reuben  Glenroy  five  nights.  Mr.  CHIPPEN 
DALE  played  Old  Cosey,  with  good  effect ;  BUCKSTONE 
was  the  Hawbuck  ;  COMPTON,  Bobby  Trot ;  Hon.  Mrs. 
Glenroy,  Miss  FEATHEKSTONE,  now  Mrs.  Howard  Paul. 

"  London  Assurance  "  was  also  revived,  (in  which 
I  played  Dazzle.)  but  was  stopped  on  its  fourth  repre 
sentation  by  Mr.  Webster,  of  the  Adelphi,  who  had 
purchased  from  the  author  the  sole  right  of  represent 
ing  that  comedy  in  London.  It  was  very  well  cast 
with  us,  with  the  exception  of  Lady  Gay  Spanker, 
which  was  intrusted  to  a  lady  utterly  incompetent  to 
represent  it,  even  if  she  had  been  perfect  in  the  words ; 
which  she  was  not.  In  the  celebrated  description  of 
the  steeple-chase,  she  baulked,  boggled,  fell,  and  floun 
dered  in  the  ditch.  Nevertheless,  she  was  upheld  by 
some  of  the  Sunday  Press,  who,  I  suppose,  received 
their  cue  from  the  management ;  but  the  good  sense 
of  the  public  prevailed,  and  the  ambitious  attempt 
was  pronounced  a  failure.  In  other  respects,  the  cast 
was  good : 

Sir  Harcourt,          ....     Chippendale. 
Max  Harkaway,         .        .        .        Kogers. 
Charles  Courtly,    ....     Howe. 


KNIGHTS   OF    THE   BOUND   TABLE.  285 

Dazzle, G.  Vandenhoff. 

Dolly  Spanker,       ....  Buckstone. 

Meddle, Compton. 

Cool, Clarke. 

Grace,         .....  Miss  L.  Howard. 

Pert, Mrs.  E.  Fitzwilliam. 

Lady  Gay, 

The  next  new  piece,  and  the  only  one  produced  this 
season  at  the  Haymarket  with  any  just  pretensions  to 
the  rank  of  a  comedy,  was  PLANCHE'S  "  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table."  It  was  founded  on  a  French  piece, 
entitled,  "  Des  Chevaliers  de  Lansquenet;  "  but  it  was 
so  skilfully  remodelled,  and  adapted  to  the  English 
stage,  that  it  had  all  the  racy  and  varied  effect  of  one 
of  Fielding's  novels  skilfully  dramatized — if  such  a 
thing  were  possible.  It  is  full  of  intrigue,  action,  and 
complication  :  as  the  Times,  in  a  long  and  elaborate 
article,  observed  of  it : 

"  So  full  of  adventure  is  the  story,  that  an  unskilful  playwright 
might,  very  easily,  have  made  of  it  an  indissoluble  tangle.  As  it 
is,  the  complexity  with  which  the  threads  of  the  tale  are  tied  to 
gether,  is  only  equalled  by  the  clearness  with  which  all  is  ex 
plained  at  last." 

On  the  reading  of  the  comedy  in  the  Green-Room, 
I  used  my  privilege  of  selection,  and  chose,  not  the 
part  (D'Arcy)  which  the  author  designed  for  me,  but 
Captain  Cozens,  the  leader  of  "  The  Knights  of  the 
Round  Table,"  which  are  simply  a  gang  of  sharpers, 
and  whose  field  of  action  is  the  gaming-table.  Man 
ager  and  author  were  surprised,  and  the  latter  some 
what  disappointed,  at  my  choice.  I  confess,  one  of 


286  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  motives  that  guided  me.  was  that  I  thus  avoided 
the  position  of  lover  to  the  leading  lady,  which  was  a 
relief,  at  any  time,  worth  some  sacrifice  ;  but  I  thought 
that  I  saw,  besides,  that  Captain  Cozens  might  be 
made  the  strong  character  of  the  drama :  the  result 
justified  my  judgment.  The  following  is  the  Times 
notice  of  the  performance  :— 

"  The  piece  has  the  advantage  of  admirable  acting,  and  while 
we  extend  our  commendation  to  all  parties,  we  would  particularly 
pick  out  Mr.  G.  Vandenhoff  and  Mr.  Buckstone,  inasmuch  as  the 
excellence  of  these  gentlemen  lay  beyond  the  limits  of  their  usual 
departments.  Mr.  Vandenhoff,  who  had  inauspiciously  opened 
the  evening  by  an  apology  for  a  cold,  fought  so  valiantly  against 
this  physical  impediment  that  he  presented  one  of  the  most  finished 
pictures  of  a  cool,  deliberate,  well-bred  villain  that  has  been  seen 
for  many  a  long  day.  Firm  in  his  evil  purposes,  and  proud  of 
his  mental  superiority,  Captain  Cozens  always  showed  himself  the 
ruling  demon  of  the  scene,  and  not  an  attitude  or  a  gesture  was 
without  its  value.  In  Tom  Tittler,  Mr.  Buckstone  gives  us  a 
specimen  of  some  legitimate  acting,  in  which  the  oddity  of  the 
poor,  but  valiant  Tittler,  by  no  means  obscures  the  chivalric 
foundation  of  the  character.  We  could  dwell  at  some  length  on 
the  excellent  manner  in  which  Mr.  Compton,  as  Smith,  cheats  the 
landlord,  but  we  purposely  omit  all  description  of  that  episode. 
It  is  an  anecdote  that  would  set  a  company  in  a  roar  after  dinner, 
and  which,  told  in  a  dramatic  form,  makes  the  house  ring  with 
laughter." 

The  piece  was  admirably  put  upon  the  stage  ;  and 
the  final  scene  of  the  fifth  act,  a  view  of  London  from 
Hampstead  Heath,  a  hundred  years  back,  was  an 
elaborate  "  set ;"  and,  as  was  universally  admitted,  was 
so  admirably  painted  and  arranged,  and  the  light  so 
skilfully  disposed,  as  to  form  a  most  perfect  landscape, 
equal  to  one  of  Cooper's  or  Moreland's. 


SCENE   FROM    "  THE    KNIGHTS/'  287 

DOUGLAS  JEKROLD,  in  Punch,  said,  in  his  concen 
trated,  quintessential  way  : 

"  Mr.  Vandenhoff,  in  Capt.  Cozens,  was  cold,  subtle,  venomous ; 
he  seemed  as  though  he  lived  on  snakes  !  a  swindler  whose  sylla 
bles  are  drops  of  poison." 

The  AthencBum  was  pleased  to  write  : 

'•'  The  success  of  the  play  greatly  depended  on  the  manner  in 
which  Mr.  Vandenhoff  supported  his  character." 

This  comedy  ran  fifty-four  successive  nights,  at 
the  Haymarket  Theatre.  The  scene  alluded  to  by  the 
Times,  in  which  SMITH  cheats  the  landlord,  is  so  good, 
that  I  give  it  here ;  as  I  am  sure  very  few  of  my 
readers  have  seen  the  Comedy  ;  which — I  presume, 
owing  to  want  of  care  and  outlay  in  its  production — did 
not,  I  believe,  meet  with  great  success  on  this  side  of 
the  Atlantic. 


SCENE  FROM  THE  KNIGHTS  OF  THE  ROUND  TABLE. 

ACT    III. 

SCENE. — Coffee- Room  at  Lockers.     Gentlemen  dining  at  various 

tables — Waiters  in  attendance.     CAPTAIN  COZENS  seated  at  a 

table  in  front.    A  table  on  right  unoccupied. 

CAPTAIN,    (looking  at  his  watch)    Quarter  past  five — they  are 
late.     Waiter ! 

WAITER.  Coming,  Sir. 

CAPT.  A  pint  of  Claret. 

WAITER.  Yes,  Sir— pint  of  claret,  (repeating  the  order) 

Enter  SMITH. 

SMITH,  (advancing  to  empty  table}  Waiter  ! 
WAITER.  Sir. 


288  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

SMITH.  This  table  engaged? 

WAITER.  No,  Sir. 

SMITH.  Then  I  may  be  permitted  to  sit  here  ? 

WAITEE.  Certainly,  Sir.    Dinner,  Sir  ? 

SMITH.  If  you  please,  I  should  feel  obliged — as  soon  as  possi 
ble. 

WAITEE.  Bill  of  fare,  Sir.  (giving  it  to  him) 

SMITH.  Thank  you.     I  may  have  any  thing  I  see  here  ? 

WAITER.  Certainly,  Sir.    (aside)  Some  country  gentleman. 

SMITH,  (surprised)  You're  very  good.  Then  I'll  say  some 
turtle,  to  begin  with. 

WAITER.  Turtle — yes,  Sir.  (aside)  An  alderman,  or  a  banker. 

SMITH.  To  be  followed  by  Filet  de  Turbot,  a  la  Hollandaise — 
Hashed  Venison,  and  Apricot  Fritters. 

WAITER,  (bowing}  Yes,  Sir.  (aside}  Oh,  a  very  rich  banker ! 

CAPT.  (who  has  been  attracted  l)y  SMITH'S  manner,  aside} 
Humph  !  Not  a  bad  judge  of  a  dinner,  whoever  he  is  ! 

SMITH.  Some  punch,  of  course,  with  the  turtle. 

WAITER.  Yes,  Sir — what  wine,  Sir  ? 

SMITH.  Is  your  Madeira  fine  ? 

WAITER.  We  have  some  very  fine,  Sir. 

SMITH.  I'll  taste  your  Madeira,  (takes  up  newspaper,  and 
reads) 

CAPT.  (aside)  A  bon  vivant — dressed  plainly,  but  like  a  gen 
tleman — a  stranger  here ;  at  least  I  never  saw  him  before. 

Enter  D'ARCY. 

D'AECY.  (seeing  CAPTAIN)  Ah ! — there  you  are  ! 

CAPT.  You're  late.     Where's  Sir  Ralph  ? 

D'ARCY.  Up  stairs  with  the  Baron  and  the  Chevalier — we've 
a  private  room.  I  made  an  excuse  to  slip  down  whilst  dinner  is 
serving,  to  see  if  you  were  here.  What  news  ? 

CAPT.  The  bird  is  found. 

D'ARCY.  Hah  ! — you  are  certain  ? 

CAPT.  Certain. 

D'ARCY.  And — can  be — secured  ? 

CAPT.  Whenever  I  please — to-night,  if  I  knew  a  safe  cage  for 
her  till  I  could  find  a  mate. 


SCENE.  289 

D'ARCY.  The  lodgings  of  one  of  our  friends? 

CAPT.  No — I  had  rather  not  trust  them  in  this  matter. 

SMITH,  (whose  dinner  Ms  leen  served  during  the  above  conver 
sation)  Waiter  ! 

WAITER.  Sir. 

SMITH.  Champagne. 

WAITER.  Yes,  Sir.  (serves  champagne) 

CAPT.  (to  D'ARCY)  Do  you  know  that  man  ? 

D'ARCY.  (looking  at  SMITH)  No. 

CAPT.  He  knows  how  to  live. 

WAITER,  (to  D'ARCY)  Your  dinner  is  served.  Sir — the  gentle 
men  only  wait  for  you. 

D'ARCY.  I  am  coming,  (aside)  I  trust  all  to  you. 

CAPT.  You  may  safely.     What  of  your  scheme  ? 

D'ARCY.  Come  to-night  to  Madame  Boulanger's,  in  Golden 
Square — there  is  a  dance  there — 

CAPT.  Where  you  have  lodged — your  sister  ? 

D'ARCY.  Aye,  aye  !  of  course — you  know — ask  for  me — I  shall 
be  there  till  twelve,  and  may  want  you. 

CAPT.  Good!  [Exit  D'ARCY. 

SMITH.  Waiter! 

WAITER.  Sir. 

SMITH.  A  pint  of  Burgundy — and  some  peaches. 

CAPT.  (aside)  Peaches  in  May  ! — half-a-crown  a-piece,  at  least ! 

SMITH,  (to  WAITER,  who  brings  Burgundy  and  peaches)  A 
toothpick  ;  (WAITER  hands  him  one  in  a  glass)  and  in  about  ten 
minutes  you  may  send  for — 

WAITER.  A  coach,  Sir  ? 

SMITH.    No ;  an  officer. 

CAPT.  (aside)  An  officer ! 

WAITER.  An  officer — of  the  Guards,  Sir  ? 

SMITH.  No ;  a  peace  officer — a  constable. 

CAPT.    (aside)     "1 

and  Y  A  constable  ! 

WAITER,  (aloud)} 

SMITH.  A  Constable. 

WAITER.  Lord,  Sir !  what  for  Sir  ? 

CAPT.  (aside,  and  rising  uneasily)  Aye,  what  for,  indeed  ? 
13 


290  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

SMITH.  To  take  me  up ! 

CAPT.  Take  him  up ! 

WAITER.  Take  you  up,  Sir  ? 

CAPT.  He's  a  madman ! 

SMITH.  Well,  I  don't  insist  upon  it,  only  take  notice,  I  shall 
go  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  this  Burgundy. 

WAITEE.  Well,  Sir,  your  bill  will  be  made  out  in  a  minute. 

SMITH.  Perhaps  so  ;  but  it  won't  be  paid  in  a  minute — I've 
no  money ! 

WAITER.  No  money !    Here,  Master ! 

SMITH.  I  told  you  to  send  for  a  constable. 

CAPT.  (aside)  If  the  fellow  is  not  mad,  he's  an  artist. 

Enter  LANDLORD. 

LA.NDLOKD.  What's  the  matter  here  ? 

WAITER.  This  gentleman,  Sir. 

SMITH.  The  Landlord,  I  presume.  Sir,  the  matter  is  exceed 
ingly  simple — I  have  eaten  an  excellent  dinner,  and  have  no  money 
to  pay  for  it. 

LAND.  Lost  your  purse,  Sir — not  in  my  house,  I  hope  ? 

SMITH.  Oh,  dear,  no,  Sir !  I  had  no  money  when  I  entered  it. 

LAND.  And  you  ordered  a  dinner  that  comes  to — (holding  out 
Mil)  one  pound,  eighteen  and  sixpence  ! 

SMITH.  No  more !  your  charges  are  very  moderate ;  I  should 
have  guessed  two  guineas  at  least. 

LAND.  And  you  can't  pay  it  ? 

SMITH.  It's  a  melancholy  fact. 

LAND.  Then  what  the  devil,  Sir — 

SMITH.  My  friend,  my  dear  friend !  pray  don't  make  a  dis 
turbance  :  I  have  desired  your  waiter  to  send  for  a  constable ; 
what  would  you  have  me  do  more  ? 

CAPT.  (aside)  He  is  a  great  artist — a  very  great  artist ! 

LAND.  Sir,  you — you're  a  rogue — you're  a  swindler ! 

SMITH.  Sir,  you  are  abusive — you  are  offensive !  If  you  do 
not  choose  to  send  for  a  constable,  I  am  your  most  obedient — 

LAND.  But  I  will.     Here,  Dick,  run  for  a  constable. 

CAPT.  Nay,  nay;  stop!  don't  be  hasty!    the  gentleman  is, 


MS.   APPROPRIATION.  291 

perhaps,  only  a  little  eccentric.  Allow  me  to  say  one  word  to 
him.  Sir — (to  SMITH) 

SMITH.  Sir.  (lowing) 

CAPT.  {aside  to  Mm)  A  little  difficulty  of  this  description  may 
happen  to  any  gentleman.  If  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  take, 
as  an  utter  stranger,  in  offering  you  the  trifling  loan  of  two  guineas 
(slipping  them  into  his  hand) 

SMITH.  My  dear  Sir,  no  apology,  I  beg.     I  am  your  debtor ! 

CAPT.  Hush! 

SMITH.  Certainly,  {aloud  to  LANDLORD)  Harkye,  my  friend 
It  is  just  possible  I  may  be  a  rogue,  but  it  is  also  possible  I  may 
be  an  Ambassador — a  Minister  of  State — or  an  East  India  Di 
rector.  I,  therefore,  only  request  you  to  decide  whether  you  will 
send  for  a  constable  or  not. 

LAND,  (hesitatingly)  Well,  I  should  be  sorry  to  do  an  uncivil 
thing  by  a  gentleman  for  a  guinea  or  two  ;  and  if  you  are  a  gen 
tleman,  I  suppose,  some  other  day,  you  might  pay  me. 

SMITH.  I  might,  undoubtedly,  but  mind — I  don't  say  I  will. 

LAND.  Well,  you  are  an  odd  gentleman,  certainly,  but  I'll  trust 
you  sooner  than  have  a  disturbance,  and  a  mob  round  my  door — 
so  I  leave  it  to  your  honor,  {throws  hill  on  table,  and  exit.) 

SMITH,  (aside)  In  that  case — here  go  the  two  guineas  !  (put 
ting  the  two  guineas  which  he  has  held  in  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
and  talcing  up  his  hat  and  cane)  Your  humble  servant,  Sir. 
{makes  a  gracious  "bow  to  CAPTAIN  COZENS,  and  putting  on  his  hat, 
walks  out,  picking  his  teeth  and  humming  an  Italian  air  !) 

Tins  season  was  marked  by  the  sudden  death  of 
Mrs.  FITZWILLIAM,  Buckstone's  faithful  partner  and 
ally.  She  died  suddenly,  of  cholera.  She  was  a 
good-natured  soul,  and  a  hearty,  clever,  versatile 
actress.  One  of  the  pieces  in  which  she  was  best 
known  in  this  country,  was  called  "  Foreign  Airs  and 
Native  Graces."  Of  this  little  piece  I  have  the  follow 
ing  incident  to  relate.  While  finishing  my  studies  for 
the  law,  in  early  life,  I  wrote  a  one-act  interlude, 


292 

entitled  "The  English  Belle,"  and  sent  it  to  the  Hay- 
market  Theatre,  during  Mr.  Webster's  management, 
for  acceptance.  Nearly  a  year  after,  the  piece  was 
returned  to  me,  rejected ;  and,  a  few  weeks  after  that, 
this  piece  of  "  Foreign  Airs  and  Native  Graces" — this 
title  being  taken  from  a  line  of  my  rejected  piece, 
"  the  English  Belle  " — was  produced  at  that  theatre, 
containing  my  incidents  and  a  great  part  of  the  dia 
logue,  with  some  additions  :  in  fact,  my  piece,  with 
a  change  of  title  and  names  of  the  characters. 

In  1846,  I  played  my  own  piece  for  my  benefit,  at 
the  Howard  Athenseum,  Boston,  under  the  title  of  the 
"  American  Belle," — with  MARY  TAYLOR  for  the  hero 
ine,  and  WARREN  for  the  Old  Man.  It  went  off  with 
great  laughter  and  applause  ;  but,  of  course,  the  press, 
in  noticing  it,  discovered,  naturally  enough,  that  it 
was  almost  a  verbatim  copy  of  "  Foreign  Airs  and 
Native  Graces."  Amusing,  very  ! 

MEM  :  It  is  not  always  safe  to  trust  a  MS.  farce  to 
the  Header  of  a  theatre,  when  that  reader  is  a  farce- 
writer  himself!  Mr.  Moncrieff  was,  I  believe,  Mr. 
Webster's  reader. 

The  SPANISH  DANCERS,  headed  by  the  agile  little 
Andalusian  Perea  JVena  were  the  next  novelty  at 
the  Hay  market  Theatre ;  and  such  was  their,  or  rather 
her  attraction — for  her  corps  de  lallet  were  shocking 
contrasts  to  her  rapid,  flashing,  coquettish  movements, 
now  like  the  curvettings  of  an  Arab  barb,  fretting  on 
the  bit,  anon  like  the  bound  of  the  antelope,  and 
now  again  like  the  whirl  and  whiz  of  a  steam  engine — 
such  was  her  attraction,  that  acting  and  actors  be 
came  of  quite  secondary  importance.  Mr.  Buckstone 


THE   LONDON   STAGE.  293 

took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  rid  himself  of  all 
salaries  that  it  was  inconvenient  to  pay,  and  of  all 
services  he  could  now  dispense  with  ;  by  the  expedient 
of  a  notice  in  the  Green-Room,  closing  the  season  on  a 
Saturday  night,  and  re-opening  it  on  the  Monday  fol 
lowing,  as  a  Summer-season !  Ingenious  and  ingen 
uous  ! 

During  the  season  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  I 
played  the  following  parts  in  tragedy  and  comedy  : 

Hamlet,  3  times ;  Evelyn  (Money),  12  times ;  Claude  (Lady 
of  Lyons),  9  times ;  Benedick,  twice  j  Rovely  (in  a  three-act 
piece,  called  Ranelagh),  19  times;  Cardinal  Wolsey,  twice; 
Stranger,  4  times ;  Incognito  (Duchess  Eleanor),  twice ;  Duke 
Aranza,  once ;  Bob  Handy,  5  times ;  Eeuben  Glenroy,  6  times ; 
Dazzle,  4  times  ;  Captain  Cozens,  54  times  ; — an  average  of  more 
than  three  nights  per  week,  for  a  season  of  thirty-eight  weeks. 

The  result  of  my  experience  was,  that  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  quit  the  profession  of  the  Stage  as  soon  as 
I  could  see  my  way  clearly  out  of  it :  for  I  had  now, 
as  the  leading  actor  of  the  leading  Metropolitan  Thea 
tre,  with  acknowledged  success  in  a  great  variety  of 
characters,  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  made  this  discov 
ery — that,  in  the  present  condition  of  theatricals,  there 
was  no  prize  worthy  a  rational  ambition,  or  the  efforts 
of  any  man  capable  of  other  things.  It  was  evident 
to  me,  that  the  London  Stage,  as  an  arena  for  the  dis 
play  of  intellectual  culture,  or  the  cultivation  of  ar 
tistic  excellence,  was  near  its  end :  it  had  become  a 
vehicle  for  spectacle,  and  illegitimate  attraction  of  va 
rious  kinds.  I  felt,  at  all  events,  that  what  little 
talent  God  had  given  me  was  misplaced  on  the  stage, 


294 

and  I  resolved,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  say  farewell  to 
it — I  hoped,  forever ! 

Meantime,  I  played  a  three-weeks'  engagement  at 
the  Liverpool  Theatre  ;  and  next,  an  engagement  of 
two  months  at  the  St.  James'  Theatre,  London,  under 
the  direction  of  Mrs.  SEYMOUK. 

This  theatre  opened  with  a  Drama  by  TOM  TAYLOK 
and  CHARLES  READE,  "  the  King's  Rival,"  which  did 
not  meet  with  the  success  which  was  anticipated  for 
it  by  the  management.  Charles  Reade,  in  his  preface 
to  the  printed  play,  seemed  to  attribute  this  to  the  de 
ficiency  of  the  representative  of  one  of  the  principal 
characters.  After  a  forced  run  of  the  piece  for  a 
month,  to  losing  houses,  we  had  to  fall  back  on  the 
regular  Drama ;  and  I  found  myself  again  playing 
Evelyn,  in  "  Money,"  and  Charles  Surface,  on  alternate 
nights,  followed  by  Claude,  Lord  Townley,  Don  Felix, 
and  the  never-dying,  but  much-abused,  Stranger. 

Illness  compelled  me  to  break  off  my  engagement 
at  the  St.  James'  Theatre,  which  closed  shortly  after 
wards,  after  a  losing  season  of  about  three  months — 
another  proof  that  that  theatre  will  never  answer,  ex 
cept  for  French  plays.  Fashion  supports  them ;  but 
even  they  have  not,  I  believe,  always  been  profitable 
to  Mr.  Mitchell.  It  was  the  Theatre  that  ruined 
BRAHAM,  by  his  attempt  to  keep  it  open  with  English 
opera ;  and  it  will  always  be  disastrous  to  any  Entre 
preneur. 

Let  me  do  Mrs.  Seymour  and  Captain  Curling  the 
justice  to  say,  that  they  fulfilled  their  obligations  to 
me,  and,  I  believe,  to  every  one  whom  they  engaged, 
faithfully  and  honorably.  Mrs.  Seymour's  playing  of 


.MANSION    HOUSE    DINNER.  295 

Gwynne,  in  "  the  King's  Kival,"  was  an  admira 
ble  piece  of  comedy,  worthy  of  the  best  days  of  the 
Drama ;  and,  if  the  play  had  been  equally  well  acted 
in  more  pretentious  parts,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it- 
would  have  been  a  great  success ;  but,  in  the  serious 
scenes,  it  was  allowed  to  flag  horribly.  Both  Tom 
Taylor  and  Charles  Eeade  will  bear  me  out  in  this,  I 
am  sure,  from  what  fell  from  them  immediately  after 
the  play  on  the  first  night.  I  played  the  King  to 
oblige  Charles  Eeade,  although  I  had  the  choice  of 
characters ;  but  he  considered  it  easier  to  find  a 
Richmond  than  a  King  Charles,  and  I  accepted  the  less 
interesting,  but  more  difficult  part,  at  his  request.  I 
received  his  and  Tom  Taylor's  thanks,  after  the  first 
performance.  The  play  itself  is  an  excellent  one,  and 
ought  to  have  succeeded.  It  would  have  done  so,  too, 
had  there  been  a  competent  stage  director.  Had  Mr. 
WALLACK,  for  example,  put  it  on  the  stage,  it  would 
have  been  a  certain  success. 

This  short  season  at  the  St.  James'  Theatre  was 
another  proof  to  me  that  it  was  time  to  quit  the  Stage. 
So  powerfully  had  this  feeling  grown  on  me,  that  I 
continually  had  a  fancy  that  I  heard  ringing  in  my 
ears,  the  Witch's  ominous  words  in  Macbeth, 

"  Harper  cries  His  time  I  'tis  time  /" 

So,  I  ran  down  to  St.  Leonard's,  aforesaid,  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  there  shook  off  a  violent  attack  of  cold 
that  had  seized  me.  I  was  summoned  back  to  town 
by  an  invitation  from  SIR  JAMES  MOON,  the  Lord 
Mayor,  to  a  special  dinner  at  the  Mansion  House,  to 
be  given  by  him,  on  the  27th  Feb.,  to  the  members 


296  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

of  the  GARRICK  CLUB,  to  which  his  lordship  belonged. 
I  mention  this  dinner,  because  the  present  President, 
Mr.  BUCHANAN,  then  Minister  at  St.  James's,  was 
among  the  invited  guests,  and  made  a  happy  hit  in  his 
speech.  The  Earl  of  Carlisle  was  there,  too,  in  his 
Lord  Lieutenant's  uniform,  with  the  Ribbon  of  the 
Bath,  the  night  before  he  quitted  town  to  assume  the 
Yice-royalty  of  Ireland.  The  chief  Baron,  POLLOCK, 
also,  and  other  notables  sat  at  the  Dais. 

The  occasion  of  the  dinner  was  this  : — 

Many  of  my  readers  are,  perhaps,  personally  ac 
quainted  with  the  little  Garrick  Club,  ("  the  little  G," 
as  Thackeray  calls  it,)  in  King  St.,  Co  vent  Garden ; 
and  those  who  are  not  so  acquainted,  yet  know  of  it 
through  the  eclat  of  the  recent  difficulty  between  Mr. 
E.  Yates  and  the  author  of  "  Yanity  Fair,"  which 
created  a  sort  of  division  in  the  Club — one  party  tak 
ing  Yates'  side,  the  other  espousing  that  of  Thack 
eray. 

The  merits  of  this  "  pretty  little  quarrel  "  I  will 
not  discuss.  It  seems,  however,  strikingly  to  illus 
trate  the  trite  moral,  that  "  they  who  live  in  glass 
houses  should  not  throw  stones."  I  regret  the  falling- 
out  of  the  affair :  for  such  "  quarrels  of  authors  "  cannot 
be  classed  among  the  "  amenities  of  literature  ;  "  and 
"  the  little  G  "  itself  suffers  damage,  in  public  opinion, 
by  the  agitation  of  so  puerile  a  matter. 

My  American  friends  may  be  interested  to  know 
that  the  Garrick  Club  was  originated  something  less 
than  half  a  century  ago,  by  about  a  dozen  gentlemen, 
chiefly  members  of  the  theatrical  profession,  who  met 
together,  formed  themselves  into  a  society  by  that 


THE    GAREICK    CLUB.  297 

name,  gradually  increasing  their  number,  which  at 
this  day  amounts  to  about  three  hundred.  The  Dukes 
of  Beaufort,  and  Devonshire,  were  successively  its  pres 
idents.  Its  list  of  members  comprises  the  names  of 
some  of  the  most  distinguished  ornaments  of  literature 
and  art;  and  it  enjoys,  or  did  enjoy — I  trust  the 
little  family  quarrel  has  not  permanently  disturbed 
its  harmony — the  enviable  reputation  of  being  the 
least  formal,  and  most  cosily -agrQQsiblQ  club  in  Lon 
don. 

Of  this  Club,  Sir  James  Moon  is  a  member  ;  and, 
in  the  smoking-room,  one  evening,  being  then  Alder 
man,  some  one  said  to  him  : 

"  Moon,  you  will  be  Lord  Mayor,  before  long ; 
then  you'll  have  to  give  us  all  a  dinner  at  the  Man 
sion  House." 

"  I  will"  replied  Sir  James,  "  with  pleasure." 

Thus  it  happened  that,  being  elected  to  the  Chief 
Magistracy  of  the  City  of  London,  the  year  after  this 
pledge,  he  redeemed  it  by  the  invitation  I  have  men 
tioned,  for  the  27th  Feb.,  1855. 

I  find -in  my  note-book  on  that  night,  the  following 
memorandum : 

"  Dinner  capital ;  speechifying  shy  !  " 

And  so  it  was.  Douglas  Jerrold  was  there ;  and,  on 
coming  out,  we  agreed  together  on  that  verdict  at  the 
door. 

It  really  was  surprising  that,  among  so  many  men 

of  talent,  in  so  many  different  lines,  there  was  not  one 

really  good,  smart,  telling  speech  made  for  the  whole 

evening !     The  Lord  Mayor  himself,  the  best  of  hosts, 

13* 


298  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

was  decidedly  "  no  orator ; "  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  was  not 
particularly  felicitous  on  the  occasion ;  the  chief  Baron 
ran,  somehow,  off  the  track,  on  to  education  /  Thack 
eray  was  not  (he  never  is)  happy  in  his  after-dinner 
out-pouring  :  he  requires  pen-ink-and-paper  to  make 
his  thoughts  and  language  flow  easily  ; — and  no  one 
stood  up  to  sustain  the  credit  of  the  Garrick  Club 
for  post-prandial  wit,  and  extemporaneous  fluency. 
Dickens  was  not  present,  or  he  would  have  redeemed 
its  honor,  and  "  sent  his  hearers  smiling  to  their 
beds !  "  In  vain  the  Lord  Mayor's  "  loving-cup  "  was 
handed  round ;  in  vain  delicious  wines,  of  the  most 
exquisite  flavor,  and  the  most  costly  price,  circulated 
in  the  extravagant  profusion  of  a  princely  hospitality : 
they  drew  no  responsive  fervor  from  the  lips  that  en- 
gulphed  them  down,  and  revelled  in  their  lusciousness. 

The  solitary  flash  that  lit  up  the  tables — the  soli 
tary  stroke  that  told — came  from  the  forge  of  Mr.  J. 
Buchanan,  the  American  Minister.  In  reply  to  some 
toast  of  the  Lord  Mayor's,  complimentary  to  the  United 
States,  Mr.  Buchanan  rose,  put  his  hand,  I  think, 
into  his  broad,  white-waistcoat  pocket,  and  began  : — 

"  My  Lord  Mayor,  my  lords  and  gentlemen  :  Re 
publican  as  I  am," — he  paused  for  a  moment,  and 
there  was  a  solemn  silence  at  his  formal  and  rather 
ominous  beginning —  Conticuere  omnes  intentique 
or  a  tenebant! 

"  Republican  as  I  am,  there  is  one  Institution  of 
Great  Britain  for  which  I  feel  the  deepest  respect,  and 
the  most  affectionate  admiration.  I  fervently  pray 
that,  whatever  changes  may  take  place — whatever 
reforms  may  be  carried  out — whatever  alterations  may 


A   REPUBLICAN   ASPIRATION.  299 

be  wrought  by  public  sentiment  and  opinion — what 
ever  revolutions,  even,  (which  heaven  avert !)  may 
take  place  in  this  country — I  fervently  pray  that 
one  institution,  at  least,  may  be  spared — that  it  may 
continue  to  flourish,  to  grow,  to  increase,  and  be 
strengthened  and  confirmed !  I  allude,  my  lords  and 
gentlemen,  to  THE  PUBLIC  DINNERS  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN  !" 

Imagine  the  surprise,  the  shouts  of  laughter,  and 
the  cheers  that  followed  this  unexpectedly  humor 
ous  turn  to  the  solemn  and  imposing  opening  of  his 
republican  exordium !  The  American  Minister  had 
made  a  hit :  he  clenched  it  by  courteously  acknowl 
edging  the  hospitalities  he  had  received  in  England  ; 
and,  proposing  the  health  of  Lady  Moon,  sat  down, 
amidst  general  applause. 

It  was  to  recount  this  little  incident  that  I  men 
tioned  the  dinner;  which,  "barring  the  spayches," 
as  SAM  LOVER,  who  sat  next  to  me,  said,  was,  I  think, 
the  best  I  ever  ate  ; — or  "  drank  aither,"  Lover  added. 
It  took  place  in  the  beautiful  Egyptian  Hall  of  the 
Mansion  House,  amidst  its  classic  forms  of  sculptured 
marble  ;  the  fragrancy  of  the  viands,  and  the  delicious- 
ness  of  the  wines,  commended  to  our  lips  by  strains  of 
most  exquisite  music. 

The  morning  after  this  great  civic  entertainment, 
I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  down  towards  Bath — 
arrived  the  day  after — remained  there  a  few  weeks, 
drinking,  and  bathing  in  the  eaux  of  that  once  cele 
brated  and  fashionable  watering-place,  where  Sheri 
dan  found  his  wife,  Miss  Lin  ley,  eloped  with  her,  and 
fought  the  duel  with  Matthews  :  from  which  circuin- 


300  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

stances  it  was  supposed  lie  took  the  idea  of  his  first 
and  best  comedy—"  The  Bivals,  or  a  Trip  to  Bath." 

Having  set  myself  on  my  legs  again  by  the  Bath 
waters,  I  rode  up  to  London,  sold  both  my  horses — 
as  good  horses  as  ever  were  crossed ;  one,  a  little 
chestnut,  about  fourteen  hands,  the  other,  a  light  bay, 
about  fifteen-and-a-half — put  myself  in  the  train  for 
Folkestone,  and  ran  over  to  Paris,  to  take  a  peep  at 
the  great  exhibition  there,  to  see  how  nearly  it  came 
up  to  ours,  (which  it  did  not,)  remained  there  a  few 
weeks,  wrote  an  important  letter,  with  an  all-important 
proposition,  to  a  certain  lady  in  America,  came  back 
to  town,  settled  my  affairs,  declined  an  engagement 
which  Charles  Kean  had  offered  me,  at  the  Princess's, 
ran  down  to  Liverpool,  played  there  five  nights,  took 
a  berth  on  board  the  "  America  "  steamer,  and  ar 
rived  at  Boston,  after  a  stormy  passage,  on  the  17th 
August,  1855. 

Three  days  after,  (on  the  20th — dies  memorabilia  /) 
I  was  married,  at  Trinity  Church,  Boston,  to  the  lady 
to  whom  I  wrote  the  letter  aforesaid.  There  was  a 
small  crowd  assembled,  though  we  had  endeavored  to 
avoid  publicity  ;  and  the  late  Hon.  KUFUS  CHOATE  was 
one  of  the  first  persons  who  came  forward  to  congrat 
ulate  us.  He  was  always  a  kind  and  sympathizing 
friend ;  and  his  recent  death  was  painful  news  to  my 
self  and  to  my  wife.  We  used  to  meet  him  frequently 
at  the  house  of  valued  friends  in  Boston  ;  and  it  was 
always  a  great  joy  to  find  Mr.  Choate  seated  there,  of 
an  evening,  delighting  the  circle  with  the  play  of  his 
conversation,  his  happy  facility  of  graphic,  concen 
trated  expression — with  an  occasional  Carlyle-ism  in 


HON.    RUFUS   CHOATE.  301 

it — and  that  readiness  of  apt  quotation  which  shed  such 
a  light  on  his  serious,  and  even  his  sportive  sayings  : 
for  he  could  call  in  classical  authority,  Greek,  Latin, 
or  English,  for  each.  He  had  a  quickness  and  aptness 
in  this  that  I  never  knew  excelled.  None,  who  had 
only  seen  him  dark,  mysterious,  grand,  and  self-ab 
stracted,  as  he 

"  thunder'd  in  the  tribune ;  " 

or,  who  had  only  heard  him  shaking,  and  at  the  same 
time,  moulding  to  his  will,  the  hearts  of  a  jury  by  his 
daring  hypotheses  and  his  impassioned  eloquence  ; 
while  ever  and  anon,  with  lowering  brow  and  weird 
look  of  warning,  he  pointed  at  them  that  terrible  in 
dex  finger,  as  if  threatening  them  with  immediate  re 
tribution  for  a  false,  or  even  a  mistaken  verdict, — 
none  who  knew  him  only  in  these  severer  hours, 
could  guess  how  simple  and  particularly  unassuming 
he  was  in  private — how  affably  indulgent  to  inferior 
minds — how  considerate  of  their  want  of  knowledge- 
how  calm,  how  gentle,  how  courteous  to  all.  He  was 
a  man  that  all  who  knew  loved  :  those  who  knew  him 
best,  the  most.  His  great  delight  was  his  books : 
"  His  library  was  dukedom  large  enough." 

There  would  he  sit  for  hours,  engaged  with  his  fa 
vorite  classics — of  which  he  had  ample  store  and  a 
great  variety  of  copies — the  delight  of  his  youth,  the 
solace  of  his  mature  age  ;  always  a  refreshment  of  his 
mental  strength,  and  a  rekindling  of  its  energies, 
jaded  and  exhausted  in  the  close  and  wearying  Court 
room. 

I  recollect  a  remark  of  his  that  struck  me  as  peculi- 


302  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

arly  worthy  of  attention,  coming  from  a  mind  of  such 
experience  and  sound  judgment  on  the  particular 
subject,  as  his;  and  noting  a  fact,  too,  worthy  of  all 
praise  and  imitation.  "We  were  speaking  of  the  con 
viction  for  fraud  of  the  great  bankers  and  defaulters, 
Sir  John  Dean  Paul,  Strachan  &  Bates,  in  England, 
who  were  brought  to  trial  without  delay ;  and,  on 
sentence  being  passed  on  them,  it  was  carried  into 
effect  at  once,  just  as  it  would  have  been  on  the 
humblest  clerk  convicted  of  embezzlement.  Mr. 
Choate  expressed  his  approbation  of  the  strict  course 
of  justice  in  this  case  ;  and  added — 

"  Of  all  things  that  struck  me  as  worthy  of  admi 
ration  on  my  visit  to  England,  and  that  which  im 
pressed  me  most,  was  the  certainty  with  which  crime 
is  punished  there ;  there  is  no  escape  for  it." 

"Why,"  I  asked,  ado  you  think,  Mr.  Choate, 
those  men  would  have  escaped  here  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  he  answered. 

"  You  are  supposing,"  I  suggested,  "  that  they 
would  have  had  you  for  their  advocate." 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  supposing  that  they 
would  have  got  off  through  some  loop-hole ;  by  dint 
of  new  trials,  delay,  and  the  default  of  witnesses, 
wearied  out  or  tampered  with.  Here  the  punishment 
would  be  problematical ;  in  England,  it  is  certain." 

I  made  a  note  of  his  remark. 

A  striking  instance  of  the  universal  confidence 
in  Mr.  Choate's  well-established  power  over  a  jury, 
was  told  me  in  Greenfield,  Mass.,  where  I  had  a 
country-house  last  summer.  Mr.  Choate  had  been 
down  there  on  a  special  retainer,  and  had  sue- 


A   GREAT   ADVOCATE.  303 

ceeded  in  obtaining  the  acquittal  of  a  prisoner 
charged  with  murder,  against  whom  the  circumstan 
tial  evidence  was  very  strong.  A  day  or  two  after 
this  unexpected  result,  two  colored  children — the 
eldest  not  over  ten  years  of  age — playing  together, 
got  into  a  quarrel.  One  of  them  struck  the  other ; 
who,  enraged  at  the  insult,  exclaimed — 

"  Look-a-here  !  if  you  do  dat  again,  I'll  kill  you." 

"  Den,  if  you  kill  me,  you'll  be  hung,"  said  young 
Sambo. 

"  No,"  replied  the  infant  contemplator  of  homi 
cide,  writh  a  precocious  eye  to  the  uncertainty  of  the 
law — "  No,  I  shan't,  neider ;  Mr.  Choate  '11  get  me 
off:" — a  singular  comment  on  the  great  advocate's 
remark,  which  I  have  quoted  above. 

Mr.  Choate  carried  out  in  its  full  sense,  Lord 
Brougham's  saying,  that  "  in  his  duty  as  an  advocate, 
a  counsel  knows  no  one  but  his  client ; "  and  he 
pleaded  the  cause  of  his  client,  whoever  he  or  she 
might  be,  as  if  his  own  life  depended  on  the  issue. 
He  argued,  he  wept,  he  warned,  he  threatened,  he 
implored  ;  he  was  at  times  Demosthenic  in  impulsive, 
fiery  outburst ;  bitterly  sarcastic,  and  "  terribly  in 
earnest ; "  anon,  he  was  Ciceronic  in  the  graceful 
flow,  and  polished  cadence  of  his  style.  He  neglected 
no  effort,  and  despised  no  trick  of  oratory  that  could 
help  his  client  and  his  cause  ;  he  put  his  whole  soul 
into  the  action ;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  his 
unwearied  and  anxious  labors  in  his  profession,  wore 
out  his  life.  His  was 

The  fiery  soul,  that,  working  out  its  way. 
Fretted  the  feeble  body  to  decay, 
And  o'er  inform'd  its  tenement  of  clay. 


304  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


XVII. 

HONEY-MOON  Fare— An  Original  Tavern-keeper— A  "Week  at  the  Boston  Theatro 
— Eeceipts— Managers  never  Satisfied— Yisit  to  England  with  Wife— Strat- 
ford-on-Avon— "Washington  Irving— Geoffrey  Crayon  —  Family -Meeting— 
Kochester,  Kent — A  Sunset  Scene — Country  Theatricals — Juliet's  Balcony 
—Love  under  Difficulties— Downfall  of  the  House  of  Capulet—Dublin— 
The  City  and  Environs— The  Theatre— The  Audience  and  their  Love  of 
Fun— Anecdotes— My  "Wife's  Eeception— Edinburgh— The  Old  and  New  City 
—Theatre— Macbeth— A  bona-fide  Re-call— A  Glasgow  Audience  and  Mana 
ger — Decay  of  Theatrical  Taste  in  Scotland — Keturn  to  America. 

OUK  honeymoon  we  passed  chiefly  in  New  York  at 
the  comfortable  Clarendon  Hotel ;  with  the  variation 
of  a  country  excursion  or  two. 

At  a  town  in  Massachusetts,  where  we  passed  a 
week  of  retreat  and  starvation,  by  no  means  congenial 
with  our  taste,  or  our  constitutions,  we  met  with  a 
painfully  amusing  and  original  tavern-keeper.  His 
"faculty"  was  to  give  the  most  niggardly  possible 
dinners,  and  to  arrogate  to  himself  the  merit  of  keep 
ing  an  elegant  and  recherche  table ;  so  that,  after  a 
lenten  meal,  from  which  one  arose  with  appetite  and 
temper  both  provoked,  one  had  to  endure  the  insult- 
added-to-injury  of  his  self-glorification.  This  was  too 
much  for  mortal  patience  to  stomach.  So,  one  day, 
all  smarting  with  my  wrongs,  I  encountered  him 


ORIGINAL    TAVERN-KEEPER.  305 

wearing  his  usual  smile  of  self-complacency,  and 
rubbing  his  hands  as  if  with  the  consciousness  of 
being  a  model  host,  and  a  pattern  landlord. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  addressed  me,  "  how  do  you  do, 
sir  ?  how  do  you  feel,  sir  ?  " 

It  is  a  point  of  courtesy  with  a  certain  class  of 
people  to  repeat  this  question  with  slight  variations, 
at  least  four  times,  as — 

"  How  d'  ye  do,  sir  ?  how  have  you  been,  sir  ? 
how  d'  ye  feel,  sir  ?  how  d'  ye  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  feel  very  hungry,  Mr.  F ,"  I  replied. 

"  Hungry,  sir  ?  ha'n't  you  dined,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  in  to  dinner,"  1  said ;  "  but  really 
can't  say  I  have  dined." 

"  Not  dined,  sir  ?  Excellent  dinner,  sir  ;  oysters, 
sir,  stewed  and  fried — " 

"  Oysters  in  August ! "  I  exclaimed,  with  a 
shudder. 

"  Well,  sir,  our  people  like  oysters,  sir,  at  any 
time." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  sympathise  with  their  taste." 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  answered,  rather  piqued,  "  we 
calhulate  to  set  a  first-rate  table." 

"  Excuse  me  saying,  then,"  I  interrupted,  "  that 
your  sum  total  is  very  wide  of  your  calculations." 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  "we  don't  want  no  com 
plaints  ;  we  calhulate  to  set  a  first-rate  table,  the  best 
of  everything  ;  an'  them  as  complains  is  outside  bar 
barians  to  me." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  confess  myself  to  be  in  that 
barbaric  category  ;  and  to  complete  my  outsidedness, 
I  propose  to  take  the  afternoon  train  to  New  York." 


306  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

I  paid  his  bill,  which  was  not  far  short  of  what 
I  should  be  charged  at  the  New  York  or  Clarendon 
hotels  ;  happy  to  escape,  without  an  attack  of  cholera, 
from  his  vegetable  and  bivalvine  diet. 

Before  taking  my  wife  to  England,  I  played  five 
nights  and  one  afternoon,  at  the  Boston  Theatre, 
under  Mr.  Barry's  management,  to  the  following 
business  receipts. 


24  Sept.  Hamlet 

25  "  Money 380 

26  "  School  for  Scandal   ....  376 

27  "  Town  and  Country      ....  364 

28  «  Benefit— Lady  of  Lyons   .        .        .  817  25 

29  "  Afternoon— Money      .        .        .        .  267  75 

Total  $2914  00 

My  wife  (Miss  Makeah),  who  last  season  com 
menced  a  theatrical  career,  at  the  Metropolitan 
Theatre,  New  York,  and  had  played  with  success 
short  engagements  at  the  Broadway  Theatre,  N".  Y., 
the  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  Philadelphia,  and  at  some 
Western  theatres,  acted  Pauline,  and  a  part  in  the 
afterpiece,  for  my  benefit;  and  surprised  me  very 
much  by  her  ease  and  ability,  remarkable  for  one  who 
had  not  played  altogether  more  than  forty  times,  and 
had  had  no  early  associations  with  the  stage.  It  was 
no  part  of  my  intention,  that  she  should  pursue  a  pro 
fession  which  I  was  eagerly  desirous  of  abandoning 
myself ;  but  I  proposed  to  wean  her  from  her  penchant 
for  the  footlights,  by  degrees. 

It  is  a  peculiarity  of  managers,  that  they  are  never 
satisfied.  Out  of  the  above  receipts,  which  Mr. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON.  307 

Barry  declared  to  be  by  no  means  satisfactory, 
although  it  was  about  the  worst  month  of  the  theatri 
cal  year,  my  share  was  §529  ;  leaving  to  the  theatre. 
§2,383  00  ;  which,  supposing  its  expenses  to  be,  as  they 
are  stated,  $300  per  night,  and  §150  on  the  Saturday 
afternoon,  would  leave  a  profit  on  the  week  to  the 
theatre,  of  §633  ;  or  a  gross  profit  on  a  season  of  forty 
weeks,  of  $29,320 ;  as  much  more,  I  imagine,  than 
the  stockholders  of  the  Boston  Theatre  ever  yet 
divided  on  a  season,  as  §29,000  is  more  than  less  than 
nothing. 

The  $529,  my  share,  was  convenient  for  the  pay 
ment  of  my  passage  from  England,  and  our  joint  pas 
sage  per  "  America,"  back  again  ;  we  arrived  in  Liver 
pool  in  the  middle  of  October. 

On  our  way  to  London,  we  ran  down  to  Stratford- 
on-Avon  ;  my  wife's  first  visit,  and  probably  my  last, 
to  the  Mecca  and  Medina  of  Shaksperean  pilgrims. 

Mine  hostess  of  the  Shakspere  Hotel — young, 
blooming,  gossipy  and  humorous — on  learning  my 
name,  enquired  if  a  Mr.  Yandenhoif,  who  had  deliv 
ered  a  speech  there  once,  at  a  banquet  in  celebration 
of  Shakspere's  birth-day,  was  related  to  me ;  and,  to 
my  answer  that  he  was  my  father,  she  rejoined — "  I 
thought  so,  because  jonfeafavre  him  so  much." 

Quite  a  Shaksperean  phrase,  I  thought,  for  mine 
hostess  ;  and  I  recalled  the  line  in  the  sonnets: 

C:  Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed." 

That  night,  I  heard  a  watchman  cry  the  hour ;  a  cus 
tom  which  I  had  thought  was  exploded  in  England.  It 


308  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

took  me  back,  at  once,  to  the  sapient  Dogberry  and 
his  instructions  to  the  watch : — 

Dogberry.  You  shall  comprehend  all  vagrom  men  5  you  are 
to  bid  any  man  stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

Watch.  How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogberry.  Why  then  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go ;  and 
presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank  God  you 
are  rid  of  a  knave. — You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets ; 
for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk,  is  most  tolerable  and  not  to 
be  endured ; — 

and  the  rest  of  that  admirable  picture  of  the  inept 
pomposity  of  a  parochial  dignitary,  probably  taken 
from  life  in  Shakspere's  day ;  but  true  now,  as  then, 
and  good  "  for  all  time." 

Next  day  we  visited  the  Tomb  and  Monument, 
and  afterwards  the  house  and  relics;  paid  the  cus 
tomary  fees — thinking  of  Mercutio's 

"  Fee  simple  ?  oh  simple  !  " — 

and  did  not  apostrophize,  or  exclaim,  or  wax  enthu 
siastic,  or  write  our  names  on  wall  or  in  book.  I  felt 
somewhat  ashamed  of  my  own  apathy ;  but,  with  me, 
enthusiasm  is  always  deadened  by  the  hackneyed  ex 
hibition  of  any  relic  of  the  mighty  dead,  which  has 
been  maudlined-over  by  thousands  of  frothy  devotees. 
The  shrine  of  a  saint  is  desecrated  and  turned  into 
ridicule  by  the  legends  of  monks  who  reap  a  harvest 
from  the  credulity  of  miracle-swallowers.  The  show 
man  at  these  hallowed  spots  of  the  world's  worship  is 
"  a  very  beadle  to  "  enthusiasm  ;  his  set  phraseology 
is  a  wet-blanket  to  imagination  ;  and  the  speculation 


SHAKSPERE'S  TOMB.  309 

of  his  fee-prospecting  eye  chases  away  all  association 
of  ideas  congenial  to  the  place. 

By  the  tomb  of  Shakspere,  I  should  choose  to  sit 
alone,  and 

" to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

To  summon  up  remembrance  " 

of  his  great  creations ;  conjuring  before  my  mind's 
eye  the  images  of  Romeo  and  his  buried  love ;  of 
Desdemona,  Imogene,  Ophelia,  Yiola ;  Prospero,  Cali 
ban,  Ariel,  Miranda ;  the  Weird  Sisters,  the  Thane  of 
Cawdor  and  his  fiend-like  wife :  and,  as  they  passed 
in  shadowy  majesty,  or  airy  grace,  along  the  aisles  of 
the  silent  church,  I  would  glance  up  with  reverence 
at  the  calm,  placid  brow  in  monumental  stillness 
above  me ;  quoting  now  and  then,  perhaps,  a  passage 
from  Hamlet,  recalling  some  one  of  his  subtle  niceties 
of  thought,  mournful  reflections,  sarcastic  truths, 
philosophic  comments,  or  bursts  of  noble  enthusiasm ; 
and  thus — holding,  as  it  were,  a  spiritual  intercourse 
with  the  mighty  master  who  "knew  all  qualities  with 
a  learned  spirit " — who  could  sound  man  "  from  his 
lowest  note  to  the  top  of  his  compass," — in  exalted  en 
thusiasm  of  homage  to  that  glorious  mind  which  has 
shed  a  light  and  lustre  on  human  nature,  I  might  ex 
claim  : 

"  What  a  piece  of  work  is  man !  how  noble  in  reason,  how  in 
finite  in  faculty  !  in  form  and  moving-  how  express  and  admirable  ! 
in  action  how  like  an  angel,  in  apprehension  how  like  a  God !  " 

But  to  go  deliberately,  and  in  premeditated  en 
thusiasm,  to  the  church  ;  to  send  the  little  lame  boy, 


310  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

waiting  for  a  chance- visitor,  for  the  sexton ;  to  await 
that  functionary's  methodical  arrival ;  to  see  him  ap 
proach  with  his  keys  in  his  hand,  and  his  official 
smirk  on  his  face  ;  to  be  by  him  monkey-led  up  the 
aisle  to  the  sacred  corner ;  to  hear  him  dole  out  his 
prescribed  formula,  and  then  to  be  called  on  to  write 
your  name  in  the  book,  and  pay  the  usual  fee ; — all 
this  is  so  like  the  monotonous  accompaniments  of 
baptism,  marriage,  or  funeral,  with  which  one  natu 
rally  associates  the  sexton,  that  one  feels  it  an  escape 
to  get  out  of  his  clutches,  and  to  gather  together,  in 
solitude,  our  old  ideas  that  clustered  round  Shakspere's 
tomb,  and  which  this  scarecrow  has  scattered,  and 
driven  away. 

The  book  of  visitors,  I  observed,  contained  a  long 
list  of  Americans ;  crowds  of  whom  annually  inscribe 
their  names  as  pilgrims  to  the  shrine. 

Apropos  of  reverence  for  relics : 

Every  reader  of  the  Sketch  Book  recollects  Wash 
ington  Irving's  charming  paper  on  Stratford-on-Avon 
— clothing  the  graceful  enthusiasm  of  the  poet  in  the 
style  of  Addison.  In  its  opening,  occurs  this  sentence : 

" '  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?  '  thought  I,  as  I  gave 
the  fire  a  stir,  and  cast  a  complacent  look  about  the  little  parlor 
of  the  Red  Horse." 

Now,  mine  hostess  of  the  Shakspere  Hotel  had  been 
(not,  of  course,  at  Washington  Irving's  visit)  bar-maid 
of  the  Eed  Horse  Inn ;  and  she  tells  me  that  a  con 
siderable  amount  of  "  entusymusy  "  is  occasionally  ex 
pended  at  that  hostelrie,  by  Washington  Irving's  coun 
trymen,  on  the  poker  with  which  he  stirred  the  fire  ! 


GEOFFREY    CRAYON.  311 

This  was  a  species  of  Fetish- worship  that  mine  hostess 
could  not  at  all  understand.  "  She  couldn't  abide," 
she  said,  "  to  see  a  parcel  of  men  a-kissing  Washing 
ton  Irving's  poker  !  Particularly,  (she  added)  as  there 
a'nt  no  such  a  thing  in  the  house." 

"  As  a  poker  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  A  poker,  of  course,  there  is,"  she  replied  ;  "  any 
quantity  of  'em  ;  but  la,  sir,  it's  no  more  Washington 
Irving's  poker  than  it's  the  Pope  of  Rome's." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  do  you  fix  on  the  Pope  of  Rome, 
rather  than  any  other  potentate  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  I've  heard  tell  of  peo 
ple  kissing  the  Pope's  toe ;  but  I  can't  say  as  I  ever 
quite  believed  that :  but  I've  seen  with  my  own  eyes 
half-a-dozen  grown  men  a-kissing  Washington  Irv 
ing's  poker, — leastwise,  a  poker  that  passed  for  his." 

"  Very  late  in  the  evening,  I  should  think,  that 
must  have  been  !  "  I  suggested. — 

I  don't  at  all  wonder  at  this  association  of  Irving's 
name  with  that  of  Shakspere,  in  the  recollections  of 
Americans :  for  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  sketch  of 
Stratford-on-Avon,  by  Geoffrey  Crayon,  has  first  ex 
cited  many  youthful  imaginations  to  a  thirst  to  drink 
at  the  Shaksperean  fountain.  I  freely  confess  that 
my  own  love  for  him  who  sleeps  on  Avon's  banks, 
owes  its  first  germ  to  that  sketch,  which  I  read  when 
quite  a  boy.  It  at  once  awakened  my  curiosity  and 
interest.  All  dramatic  works  were  forbidden  lore  to 
me,  at  that  age,  at  school ;  but  I  surreptitiously  pro 
cured  a  u  Dodd's  Beauties  of  Shakspere,"  and  eagerly 
devoured  this  concentrated  essence  of  the  poet.  I 
kept  it  under  my  pillow  at  night ;  and,  by  day,  stole 


312  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

into  corners  and  secret  places  to  enjoy  it.  It  opened 
to  me  a  new  revelation ;  a  new  gospel  of  thought, 
language,  sentiment,  emotion  ;  and  I  never  parted 
with  the  scattered  leaves, — the  disjecta  membra  poetaz 
— till  I  was  enabled,  at  a  later  age,  to  study  and  ex 
plore  the  master's  mind  in  the  massive  and  harmo 
nious  fulness  of  his  entire  works,  of  which  the  Beauties 
were  but  a  patch-work  sample.  All  honor,  then,  to 
Washington  Irving,  and  to  Geoffrey  Crayon's  poker, 
which  has  stirred  up  so  good  a  fire  in  a  thousand 
hearts ! 


After  a  sojourn  of  some  months  in  London,  where 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  making  my  wife  known  to  my 
father  and  mother,  who  received  her  as  a  beloved 
daughter,  we  took  a  trip  into  Ireland  and  Scotland ; 
and,  by  way  of  paying  our  expenses,  while  we  grati 
fied  our  love  of  the  picturesque,  I  indulged  my  wife's 
inclinations,  by  making  joint  engagements  at  Dublin, 
Edinburgh,  Glasgow,  Liverpool,  and  other  places. 
This  answered  a  double  purpose ;  first,  that  of  paying 
travelling  charges  as  aforesaid ;  and  second,  of  cooling 
my  partner's  fancy  for  theatrical  life,  by  showing  her, 
without  letting  her  suffer  from,  the  continual  desa- 
gremens  that  attend  it. 


One  of  the  most  ancient  cities  in  England  is 
Rochester,  in  Kent.  Its  royal  castle  is  celebrated  in 
history  for  many  important  and  bloody  scenes,  and 
there  are  curious  legends  attached  to  its  ancient  walls. 


AN    EVENING    SCENE.  313 

My  readers  will  recollect  it  from  Dickens's  story  of  the 
"  Seven  Poor  Travellers."  Thither  we  ran  down  from 
London,  being  invited  to  play  a  few  nights,  and  spent 
a  delightful  week  there ;  barring  only  the  usual  dis 
comfort  and  annoyances  of  a  small  English  provincial 
theatre.  But  we  had  a  fine  large,  comfortable  dress 
ing-room  ;  tolerable  houses  ;  immense  applause.  My 
wife  enjoyed  this  old  city  much ;  it  wras  so  different 
from  anything  she  had  ever  seen,  or  could  see  in  her 
own  country.  I  extract  from  her  note-book,  a  few 
Mems.,  which  show  her  impressions  : 

"  Here  got  the  first  sight  of  the  chalky  cliffs  of 
Albion  ;  and  got  plenty  of  the  chalky  soil  on  myboots, 
walking  about.  Crossing  the  bridge  to  Stroud,  shall 
never  forget  the  beautiful  picture  we  saw  from  its 
centre.  Below  us,  the  Medway,  bearing  on  its  quiet 
bosom  a  fleet  of  little  vessels,  that  seemed  built  like 
the  boats— -feluccas,  I  suppose,  they  are  called — which 
I  have  seen  in  Oriental  pictures.  On  one  side,  the 
grand  old  castle  ;  roofless,  uninhabited,  desolate,  yet 
grand  and  majestic  in  its  ruins ;  its  broken  arches, 
draped  with  the  overgrowing  ivy,  clinging  to  the 
crumbling  walls ;  itself,  ever  fresh,  green,  and  strong, 
like  a  firm  friend,  steadfast  to  fallen  fortunes :  and, 
here  and  there,  bits  of  the  old  city  wall,  peeping  out 
from  beneath  the  same  living  canopy ;  with  the 
quaint,  old  stone  houses,  and  the  age-darkened  towers 
of  the  cathedral  frowning  above.  In  the  distance, 
the  military  depots  of  Chatham  and  Stroud.  On  the 
other  side,  the  sun,  without  a  cloud,  sinking  slowly, 
majestically,  and,  it  appeared,  almost  reluctantly,  in 
14 


314  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

a  flood  of  gold  and  crimson,  behind  the  white  cliffs  ; 
like  a  Knight  Templar  of  old,  enveloping  his  burnished 
armour  in  his  snow-white  mantle.  It  was  a  Sunday, 
and  crowds  of  people,  in  holiday  attire,  were  passing 
and  repassingthe  bridge,  chatting  and  laughing  gaily; 
officers,  in  their  bright  scarlet  regimentals ;  soldiers, 
of  different  corps,  in  different  uniforms  ;  and  laboring 
men,  with  their  wives  and  little  ones, — the  contrasted 
types  of  peace  and  war, — all  enjoying  the  day  of  rest ; 
no  drunkenness,  no  disorder.  While,  at  the  railway 
station  hard  by,  the  fuming  and  snorting  engine  alone 
gave  sign  of  unquiet  and  impatient  eagerness ;  a  type 
of  the  energetic,  sleepless,  progressive  will  of  man, 
ever-restless  and  impatient  for  action,  in  the  midst  of 
tranquillity  and  repose.  Proudly,  calmly,  and  it 
seemed  to  me,  almost  sadly,  the  sun  disappeared,  as 
if  loth  to  leave  the  varied  scene  he  gazed  upon.  Never, 
in  a  city,  have  I  seen  so  gorgeous  a  sunset,  or  so 
varied  a  picture  of  animated,  contented  life.  The 
calm  twilight  that  succeeded,  was  equally  charming, 
in  its  thoughtful  aspect  of  gray  serenity.  The  con 
trast  was  wonderful ! 

"  But  the  contrasts  of  the  theatre  were  stronger 
and  stranger  still !  Shall  I  ever  forget  Romeo,  and 
Juliet  at  the  Rochester  Theatre  ?  That  balcony 
scene,  especially  !  The  platform  I  stood  on  "  (it  is  my 
wife  who  speaks)  "  was  a  narrow  door,  lifted  off  its 
hinges  to  uphold  Juliet's  feet ;  resting  very  insecurely, 
and  scarcely  wide  enough  to  admit  of  a  chair ;  there 
was  one,  but  I  dared  not  sit  on  it,  for  fear  of  a  mis 
hap.  The  railing  to  the  balcony  was  formed  by  a 
carpenter's  ladder,  supported,  at  arm's  length,  by  two 


COUNTRY    THEATRICALS.  315 

men  ;  one  behind  the  scenes,  at  one  end,  out  of  sight ; 
and  the  other,  on  the  stage,  and  masked  by  a  piece 
of  a  scene  'representing  wall?  Thus,  I  had  a  most 
frail  and  ricketty  standing-place :  I  could  not  lean  on 
the  rail,  (the  ladder)  or  the  men  would  be  unable  to 
support  it,  at  the  full  length  of  their  raised  hands ; 
and  the  platform  was  so  narrow,  so  scanty,  and  so 
insecure,  that  I  dared  not  move,  for  fear  of  falling 
backwards,  or  bringing  the  whole  c  set '  down  with 
me,  in  sight  of  the  audience.  Talk  of  love-scenes  on 
such  &  platform! 

"  I  mounted  to  it  by  a  crazy  step-ladder ;  and  what 
passed  between  George,  myself,  and  the  carpenters 
behind,  was  something  like  this : 

MYSELF.  (Nervously,  feeling  the  platform  tremble  under 
me.)  "Ah  me!" 

[Then  aside.  "  Oh  dear,  I'm  sure  I  shall  fall.] 

Oh,  Romeo !  Romeo  !  wherefore  art  thou  Romeo  ? 

[Carpenter  below.  "  It's  quite  safe,  ma'am,  if  you  don't 
move."] 

Deny  thy  father  and  refuse  thy  name, 

[Carpenter,  to  the  other  man.  "  Bill,  keep  your  side 
steady ! "] 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I'll  no  longer  be  a  Capulet ! 

[  (Then,  aside.)    "  0,  how  I  wish  the  scene  was  over !  " 
Carpenter  below.     "  It's  all  right,  ma'am,  if  you  don't 
move  !  "J 

'Tis  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy ! 


316  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

(Crack  below  /) 

[Aside.     "  0  dear,  dear  !  I  know  it'll  all  come  down  !  " 
Carpenter.    "  Bless   you,   ma'am,    it's    as    safe    as    the 
church ! "] 

What's  in  a  name  ? — 
[Carpenter.     "  Steady  with  that  ladder,  Tom."] 

That  which  we  call  a  rose 
By  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet ! 

[GEORGE.     (Aside  to  me,  from  behind  his  hat.)     "  Cut 
the  scene  short,  Mary ;  " — and  I  made  a  great  cut.] 

Romeo,  quit  thy  name  ; 

And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 

Take  all  myself ! 

GEORGE,  as  ROMEO — I  take  thee  at  thy  word !    (Juliet  starts  !) 

[Crack  !  crack !  went  the  platform.     I  trembled.] 
GEORGE.     [  (Aside.)     "  Keep  still,  Mary,  for  Heaven's 
sake  ! "] 

Call  me  but  love,  I  will  forswear  my  name, 

["  Curse  those  carpenters !  "] 

And  never  more  be  Romeo. 

MYSELF.  What  man  art  thou, 

[Carpenter,  below.     "  Don't  you  turn,  ma'am,  or  you'll 
be  off!"] 

— that  thus  bescreen'd  in  night 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel  ? 

[  (Aside.)     "  O  dear,  its  all  giving  way."] 

GEORGE. — I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am  ; 


LOVE    UNDER   DIFFICULTIES.  317 

[  (Aside.)    "  Don't  try  to  move,  Mary,  keep  quite  still " — ] 

My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
[  (Aside.)     "  And  cut  the  long  speeches !  "] 

Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee  ! 
[MYSELF.     (Aside.)    "  0  George,  I'm  sure  it's  going !  "] 

Mine  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred  words — 

[GEORGE.  (Aside  to  the  men  outside.)  "  Mind  those 
props  are  safe,  men."] 

[Man's  voice.     "  All  right,  sir."] 

MYSELF.     Of  that  tongue's  uttering,  yet  I  know  the  sound. 

Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague? 
GEORGE.     Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear — 

[MYSELF.    (Aside.)    "  You've  cut  four  long  speeches  !  "J 

GEORGE.  "  Never  mind ;  get  through  as  quick  as  you 
can !  " 

[Actress's  voice  below.  "  Mrs.  Yandenhoff,  you've  caught 
your  dress  in  a  nail ;  mind  it  don't  trip  you."] 

A  hiss  from  the  audience  / 

"  And  so  on,  till  the  end  of  the  scene  ;  when,  just  as, 
with  fear  and  trembling,  I  had  descended,  and  put 
my  foot  on  terra  firma,  the  whole  side-front  of  Capu- 
let's  house,  balcony,  terrace,  platform,  and  all,  came 
clattering  to  the  ground,  in  sight  of  the  audience. 
George  rushed  off  to 

his  ghostly  father's  cell 
His  help  to  crave,  and — 


318  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  rest  of  the  line  was  drowned  in  the  roars  of  the 
audience. 

N.B. — Never  to  play  Juliet  in  future  without 
seeing  and  trying  the  balcony  in  the  morning" 

In  Dublin,  we  found  continual  sources  of  amuse 
ment  in  the  -drollery  and  humor  of  the  people,  and  the 
singular  and  shifting  traits  of  character  which  they 
present.  The  Dublin  audience  is,  in  itself,  a  study. 
Some  of  their  extemporised  interludes,  and  episodiacal 
dialogues,  and  even  interruptions  of  the  play,  annoy 
ing  as  they  are  to  the  persons  on  the  stage,  are  fre 
quently  highly  amusing  to  a  mere  spectator.  Their 
sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  intense;  and  when  any 
peculiarity  of  an  actor's  manner  strikes  them  comic 
ally,  no  matter  how  serious  the  occasion  may  be,  their 
fun  is  sure  to  find  vent. 

Thus,  Mr. ,  a  very  dignified  and  rather 

over-solemn  tragedian,  playing  Virginias,  at  the 
Dublin  Theatre,  in  the  scene  where  he  botroths  his 
daughter  to  Icilius,  in  the  touching  and  beautiful 
words  of  Knowles — 

"  Didst  thou  but  know,  young  man, 
How  fondly  I  have  watched  her  since  the  day 
Her  mother  died,  and  left  me  to  a  charge 
Of  double  duty  bound — how  she  has  been 
My  cherish'd  thought  by  day, 'my  dream  by  night, 
My  sweet  companion,  pupil,  tutor,  child — 
Thou  would'st  not  wonder  that  my  drowning  voice 
And  choking  utterance,  upbraids  my  tongue 
That  tells  thee  she  is  thine,"— 

the  actor,  who  had  given  this  passage  with  an  almost 


PAT    IN    THE   THEATRE.  319 

clerical  solemnity  of  manner,  that  smacked  little  of 
the  Roman  soldier  and  father,  had  just  got  to  the 
words — "  that  tells  thee  " — and  was  about  to  join  the 
lovers'  hands  with  the  final — "  she  is  thine  " — when  a 
voice  from  the  gallery  broke  the  spell,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  woke  up  the  audience  with  this  exclama 
tion,  uttered  in  a  loud  and  threatening  voice — "  1 
forbid  the  ~bans  !  "  Shouts  of  laughter,  hurrahs,  and 
yells,  succeeded  the  joke ;  and  the  actor  did  not  re 
cover  himself  for  the  night. 

I  recollect  once  visiting  the  Dublin  Theatre,  before 
I  was  an  actor  myself,  when  the  play  was  Hamlet ; 
that  character  being  sustained  by  a  gentleman  named 
Butler,  and  the  part  of  Horatio  by  Mr.  H.  Cooke. 
The  "  boys  "  in  the  gallery  were  full  of  their  fun  dur 
ing  the  whole  play,  being  especially  facetious  upon 
the  Player-King,  and  any  of  the  subordinates  whose 
tenuity  of  leg,  or  peculiarity  of  voice  or  action,  gave 
a  handle  for  a  satirical  jest,  or  a  rude  witticism.  Of 
course,  this  gallery  by-play  was  by  no  means  advan 
tageous  to  the  legitimate  effect  of  the  tragedy,  which 
was  continually  interrupted  by  a  cross-tire  of  jocose 
dialogue.  Thus,  in  the  play-scene,  where  the  King 
lies  asleep  in  the  garden ;  as  Ludovico  advanced  with 
stealthy  step,  and  timorous  action,  to  pour  the  poison 
in  his  ears,  a  fellow  cried  out  to  him,  "Aha!  ye 
poisoning  blackgyard  !  I'm  watchin'  you ! "  On 
which  he  was  reproved  by  another,  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  house,  exclaiming,  with  assumed  gravity, 
"  Whisht,  Tim,  wid  ye !  or  you'll  wake  up  the  ould 
gintleman  aslape  in  the  cheer!"  With  such  absurd 
commentary  did  the  play  drag  through  the  five  acts. 


320  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

On  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  there  arose  a  general  shout 
ing  and  hurrahing,  in  which  the  name  "  Butler,  But 
ler,"  was  frequently  heard.  After  some  minutes  of 
increased  and  increasing  uproar,  the  actor  so  called 
presented  himself,  and  acknowledged  the  doubtful 
compliment.  But  this  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  the 
imperious  gods.  A  voice  from  above  gave  them  a 
fresh  hint,  by  calling  out,  "  We've  had  the  Butler, 
boys,  now,  let's  have  the  Cook ! "  The  idea  was 
snatched  at  instantly ;  and  nothing  could  quell  the 
riotous  vociferations  for  "  Cooke,  Cooke  !  "  that  suc 
ceeded,  but  the  re-appearance  before  the  curtain  of 
that  actor,  who  had  played  Horatio ! 

The  presence  of  the  Lord-Lieutenant  himself,  with 
his  suite — to  do  honor  to  whom  on  what  is  called  a 
Command-night,  (because  the  performances  are  sup 
posed  to  be  commanded  by  the  representative  of  her 
Majesty,)  the  lord-may  or  and  civic  authorities,  in  their 
"robes  and  furr'd  gowns,"  attend,  with  their  wives 
and  families,  and  the  theatre  is  usually  crowded, — 
even  the  ceremonial  and  state  of  such  an  occasion  as 
this,  is  not  always  sufficient  to  quell  Paddy's  inherent 
love  of  fun,  and  the  assertion  of  his  free  liberty  of  speech 
from  the  gallery.  Sometimes,  on  these  nights,  the 
Lord-Lieutenant  and  the  audience  generally,  are 
made  acquainted  with  little  circumstances  of  the 
family  history,  or  antecedents,  of  some  of  the  specta 
tors  in  the  boxes,  male  or  female — no  matter  which — 
whose  consate  Pat  wishes  to  take  down ;  by  revelations 
from  the  gallery  of  incidents  or  facts  (or  even  inven 
tions)  that  throw  the  house  into  convulsions  of 
laughter,  and  the  unfortunate  subject  of  the  attack, 
into  the  most  painful  confusion. 


IRISH    JAUNTING-CAR.  321 

But  the  external  show  of  reverence  of  the  Irish  for 
rank  and  title  is,  generally,  very  marked  :  I  am  speak 
ing,  particularly,  of  the  lower  orders,  who,  when 
they  can  restrain  their  native  turn  for  satire  and  sly 
humor,  from  which  no  one  is  secure,  look  with  a  sort 
of  awe,  not  perhaps  unmingled  with  bitterness,  on  the 
Lord-Lieutenant  and  his  state.  The  Earl  of  Carlisle 
held  the  vice-regal  office  in  1856,  when  we  were  in 
Dublin  ;  and,  in  connection  with  this  fact,  I  must  re 
late  an  incident  that  amused  us  excessively,  illustrat 
ing,  as  it  did,  Pat's  veneration  for  rank,  and  his  half 
real,  half  ironical  respect  for  the  gentry,  or  what  he 
calls  the  quality. 

My  wife  and  I  had  engaged  a  jaunting-car — as  the 
Irish  call  those  strange,  awkward-looking,  but  particu 
larly  easy,  two-wheeled  carriages,  in  which  you  sit 
side-ways,  two  on  a  seat,  back  to  back  to  two  others 
on  the  other  side,  with  your  feet  on  a  ledge  over  the 
wheel ;  and  we  were  driving  along  the  quay  towards 
the  Phoanix  Park,  when,  at  some  distance  a-head,  I 
observed  an  open  carriage  and  four,  with  postillions, 
approaching  at  a  rapid  rate.  I  perceived  that  it  was 
the  Lord  Lieutenant's  equipage  ;  and  our  driver,  who 
had,  for  an  Irish  boy,  been  tip  to  this  time  unusually 
taciturn,  presently  made  the  same  discovery,  which 
he  announced  to  us  in  almost  a  whisper.  The  car 
riage  came  on,  and  in  it  I  recognized  Lord  Carlisle 
and  an  Aide.  Having  had  the  honor,  some  years  be 
fore,  of  being  presented  to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  when 
he  was  Lord  Morpeth,  as  the  carriage  passed  I  raised 
my  hat ;  a  courtesy  to  which  the  Lord  Lieutenant  was 
entitled  from  the  meanest  stranger.  Of  course,  the 
H* 


322  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

salutation  was  courteously  acknowledged  and  returned 
by  his  lordship,  as  the  carriage  whirled  by.  "What 
was  the  surprise,  and  at  the  same  time  the  amusement 
of  my  wife  and  myself,  when  our  taciturn,  many- 
caped  driver,  glancing  round  at  us,  exclaimed  in  a 
tone  of  wonder, — 

"  O,  murther !  Sure  there's  the  Lord  Liften'nt  after 
bo  win'  to  'em  !  " 

Then,  applying  the  whip  to  his  horse,  which,  up 
to  this  moment  had  maintained  a  very  leisurely,  not 
to  say  lazy  pace,  he  cried  out,  "  Get  up,  ye  blackgyard ! 
Sure  you've  qualaty  behind  ye  !  (whip).  Isn't  the 
Lord  Liften'nt  after  bo  win'  to  'em  !  Go  long,  you 
divel !  (whip)  Sure  you've  qualaty  behind  ye !  Would 
ye  disgrace  yourself,  ye  lazy  vagabone !  " 

And  with  these  exhortations,  repeated  and  varied 
at  intervals,  he  continued  to  stir  up  his  lank,  lazy, 
broken-kneed  steed,  till  we  arrived  at  the  Park-gate. 
There  descending  from  his  perch,  with  an  air  of  pro 
found  respect,  he  spread  a  small  piece  of  carpet  for 
my  wife  to  put  her  feet  on  as  she  alighted — mutter 
ing  all  the  time  some  words  in  which  "  Lord  Liften'nt " 
and  "  qualaty  "  were  alone  audible.  Desiring  to  walk 
about  the  grounds,  we  left  him  engaged  in  polishing  up 
his  harness  with  the  greatest  diligence,  with  the  same 
under-toned  accompaniment  of  Lord  Lifterfnt  and 
qualaty,  kept  up  all  the  time.  After  strolling  through 
the  beautiful  Park,  one  of  the  finest  promenades  in 
any  city  in  the  world,  we  returned  to  our  jaunting- 
car  and  our  driver,  who  by  this  time  had  polished  the 
plate- work  of  his  harness  into  a  wonderful  state  of 
brightness,  and  had  wrought  such  an  improvement  in 


DUBLIN  THEATRE EVADNE.         323 

the  general  appearance  of  his  machine,  that  we  hardly 
recognized  it.  He  again  spread  the  piece  of  carpet 
for  my  wife's  feet,  (as  it',  after  walking  nearly  an  hour, 
there  was  any  danger  of  her  boots  being  soiled  now ; 
but  this  was  an  Irishman's  gallantry ;)  mounted  to  his 
perch,  touched  up  his  steed  with  his  whip,  and  again 
exhorting  him  not  to  disgrace  qualaty  that  the  Lord 
Liften'nt  was  after  bowin'  to,  and  reviling  him,  when 
ever  he  relaxed  his  speed,  as  a  vagabone  and  a 
blackgyard,  drove  us  home  in  much  better  time  than 
he  ever  dreamt  of  making  when  he  first  took  us  up. 
"When  we  alighted,  there  was  the  same  Sir  'Walter- 
Raleigh-ceremony  of  the  carpet,  the  same  mutterings 
about  the  Lord  Liften'nt  and  the  qualaty ;  and,  of 
course,  (which  after  all,  I  very  much  suspect  was  the 
end  and  aim  ot  all  his  delicate  attintions) — on  receiv 
ing  the  fare,  a  leering  request  for  "  a  trifle  to  drink 
your  honor's  health  ; "  which  pour-boire  could  not,  of 
course,  be  refused  by  qualaty  to  whom  the  Lord 
Liften'nt  was  after  bowin'  to  ! 

We  spent  a  very  happy  time  in  Dublin,  with  de 
lightful  country  jaunts,  on  the  never-failing  car, 
among  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  Wicklow  moun 
tains.  Mr.  Harris,  the  manager,  I  found  a  man  of 
honor  and  a  courteous  gentleman  ;  and  my  wife  es 
tablished  herself,  at  once,  in  the  favor  of  the  rather 
uncertain  audience.  She  made  an  especial  irnpres- 
sion  in  "  Evadne,"  which  she  repeated  several  times 
in  her  fortnight's  engagement,  and  was  always  enthu 
siastically  cheered  in  her  last  scene.  The  play,  it  will 
bs  remembered,  is  the  production  of  the  celebrated 
Irish  author — a  college-mate  of  my  father,  by-the-bye 


324  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

— RICHARD  SHIEL  ;  the  highly-polished  and  yet  impas 
sioned  orator,  and  sometime  associate  of  DANIEL 
O'CoNNELLin  the  great  agitation  that  was  crowned  by 
the  grant  of  Catholic  Emancipation  in  England,  and 
opened  the  doors  of  the  House  of  Commons  to  Shiel 
and  others  of  his  countrymen. 

In  Edinburgh,  too,  we  spent  an  agreeable  month, 
never  weary  of  its  picturesque  Old  Town,  its  Calton, 
its  Arthur's  seat,  its  Holy  rood,  its  Castle,  its  Scott's 
monument,  and  the  thousand  recollections  that  they 
awaken  and  recall.  Edinburgh,  at  night,  is,  I  think, 
one  of  the  most  striking  pictures  that  can  be  con 
ceived — a  great  effect  of  light  and  shade;  blend 
ing  in  the  mind  the  past  and  present.  Standing 
in  Prince's  street,  in  the  new  town,  you  look  up 
across  the  gorge  of  the  railroad  and  the  intervening 
gardens,  and,  some  hundreds  of  feet  above  your  head, 
you  see  another  town,  of  ancient  aspect,  the  thous 
and  lights  of  which  look  down,  like  watchful  eyes, 
upon  the  modern  street  and  its  "  fire-new  "  improve 
ments  ;  while,  on  your  right  at  a  distance,  darkly 
frowns  the  massive  old  Castle,  in  which  the  unfortu 
nate  Mary  was  a  prisoner,  and  from  a  window  of 
which  she  let  down  her  infant  son,  afterward  James  I. 
of  England,  in  a  wicker-basket,  to  the  arms  of  friends 
below.  This  night-effect  is  very  extraordinary  ;  and 
impresses  you,  both  in  itself  and  by  association  ;  conjur 
ing  up  to  your  imagination  stately  processions  of  the 
feudal  age,  with  its  "  bonetted  chieftains," 

{i  All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array," 
with   their  rude  manners,  savage  feuds,  boisterous 


EDINBURGH    THEATRE MACBETH.  325 

revels,  and  bloody  raids  ;  brought  into  unexpected 
contact  and  contrast  with  the  regular  forms,  manners 
and  habits  of  modern  civilization  and  order. 

Every  one  that  has  an  opportunity  should  run 
over  from  Liverpool  to  Edinburgh,  visit  Roslin  Castle 
and  Hawthornden,  in  the  neighborhood,  make  a  run 
to  Glasgow,  thence  up  the  Clyde,  and  take  a  peep  at 
the  Trosachs  and  Loch  Lomond. 

At  the  Edinburgh  Theatre,  we  met  with  particu 
lar  favor  from  the  public,  and  received  some  unusual 
marks  of  their  approbation. 

I  was  delighted  to  find  that  in  Dublin,  Edinburgh, 
Liverpool,  and  indeed  in  every  large  city  where  my 
wife  appeared,  her  claims  were  at  once  admitted,  with 
out  any  allowance,  or  disparagement,  on  the  plea  of 
her  novice-ship.  She  was  judged  simply  on  her  own 
merits;  and  I  have  frequently  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her  triumphantly  recalled  before  the  curtain 
at  the  Dublin  and  Liverpool  theatres,  in  Mrs.  Haller, 
Evadne,  Margaret  El  more,  and  other  parts. 

Much  as  I  deprecate  this  practice,  as  too  frequently 
a  hackneyed  and  unmeaning  compliment,  I  must  ex 
cept  one  occasion  on  which  it  gave  me  real  pleasure, 
from  its  being  the  spontaneous,  and  free  act  of  the 
whole  audience ;  an  audience,  too,  to  which  we  were 
utter  strangers.  The  incident  occurred  at  the  Edin 
burgh  Theatre  Royal.  On  the  exeunt  of  myself  and 
wife,  as  Macbeth  and  Lady,  in  the  murder-scene,  in 
the  middle  of  the  second  act,  the  applause  that  fol 
lowed  was  kept  up  for  several  minutes,  long  after  I 
had  washed  the  blood  from  my  hands  behind  the 
scenes ;  nor  would  the  house  allow  the  scene — which 


326  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

should  continue  with  the  entrance  of  Macduff  and 
others — to  proceed,  until  we  had  re-entered,  and  had 
been  greeted  with  loud  cheers,  the  pit  rising  to  us. 

This  burst  of  enthusiasm  was  particularly  remark 
able,  as  Mr.  Wyndham,  the  manager,  observed,  be 
cause  the  Edinburgh  audience  is  proverbial  for  its  re 
serve,  and  for  the  severity  of  its  judgment.  The 
fact  was,  therefore,  recorded  as  something  especially 
worthy  of  note  in  the  theatre  of  the  Scottish  Metro 
polis  ;  and  I  trust  the  reader  will  excuse  my  pardon 
able  vanity  in  mentioning  it  here. 

We  had  the  satisfaction  of  inlaying  Hamlet  in  Glas 
gow^  to  the  fullest  house,  as  the  manager  declared,  that 
had  ever  been  known  in  the  theatre..  The  "  gods"  were 
uncomfortably  crowded,  and,  in  consequence,  un 
pleasantly  obstreperous  ;  so  that  the  greater  part  of 
the  play  was  "  mere  dumb  show."  I  took  the  oppor 
tunity  of  being  alone  on  the  stage,  to  give  them  a  lec 
ture  on  good  behavior,  objecting  especially  to  their 
making  me  uncomfortable  on  the  stage,  because  they 
were  uncomfortable  up-stairs.  This  had  its  effect, 
while  I  was  on ;  but  the  moment  I  made  my  exit,  the 
uproar  began  with  fresh  vigor.  Sir  William  Don, 
who  played  in  the  afterpiece,  had  a  hard  time  of  it. 
I  confess  I  did  not  leave  Glasgow  with  a  very  exalted 
idea  of  its  audience  :  a  ruder  set,  and  a  ruder  manager 
I  never  met  with.  His  wife  was  a  charming  woman, 

but  he !  Beauty  and  the  Beast !  These  are  the 

kind  of  fellows  that  make  one  hate  a  theatre,  and  all 
connection  with  it. 

Of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyndham,  on  the  contrary,  of 
the  Edinburgh  Theatre,  we  retain  very  pleasant  recol- 


RETURN — RETREAT.  327 

lections;  though  it  was  really  lamentable  to  see  the 
utter  decay  of  theatrical  taste  in  a  city  which  had 
formerly  been  so  great  a  patron  of  the  drama.  When 
SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  lived,  he  was  a  frequent  visitor  at 
the  Edinburgh  Theatre;  and  "WILSON,  CHRISTOPHER 
NORTH,  and  JEFFREY  might  have  often  been  seen 
there.  But  that  day  has  entirely  gone  by.  The  Edin 
burgh  Theatre,  now-a-days,  can  seldom  boast  of  a  dis 
tinguished  or  educated  audience :  the  boxes  are 
usually  deserted  ;  and  the  pit  is  no  longer  tenanted 
by  those  sturdy  critics  whose  opinion  and  applause 
were  of  value  to  the  actor,  and  set  the  seal  on  his 
reputation  : 

"So  runs  the  world  away ! ' 


After  a  year  pleasantly  spent  in  England,  Ireland, 
and  Scotland,  we  took  passage  in  the  Canada  from 
Liverpool,  and  arrived,  in  the  middle  of  November,  at 
Boston.  Having  played  an  engagement  that  was 
offered  me  immediately  on  my  arrival,  I  set  about 
carrying  out  my  cherished  desire  of  entirely  quitting 
the  stage,  which  had  entirely  lost  its  charms  for  me, 
and  which  appeared  day  by  day,  and  night  by  night, 
to  be  sinking  lower,  as  an  acknowledged  source  of  in 
tellectual  amusement.  I  have  never,  as  some,  I  think, 
without  reasonable  grounds  have  done,  claimed  for 
the  stage  the  position  of  a  moral  instructor;  that  I 
do  not  consider  by  any  means  a  necessary  part  of  its 
purpose.  But,  when  it  ceases  to  be  regarded  as  af 
fording  amusement  worthy  of  the  attention  and  en 
couragement  of  cultivated  minds,  and  only  pays, 


328  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

when  it  panders  to  vulgar  taste  or  local  prejudices, 
then,  for  my  part,  I  desire  to  escape  from  a  profes 
sion  which,  while  attended  with  many  heart-wearing 
annoyances,  offers  no  high  object  of  ambition,  and 
neither  elevates  the  mmd  nor  fills  the  pocket. 


Henceforth  my  appearances  in  public  are  confined 
to  the  Lecture-room ;  and  my  ambition  is  fully  satis 
fied  in  being  received  as  an  Interpreter  of  Shakspere's 
inspired  page,  without  the  aid  or  drawback,  which 
ever  it  may  be  considered,  (and  there  are  strong 
arguments  for  either  view)  of  stage  accessories, 
costume,  scenery,  and  a  company  of  actors.  I  never 
stand  at  the  Reading-desk,  in  my  plain,  evening 
toilette,  with  the  works  of  him  who 

"  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time," 

open  before  me,  that  I  do  not  congratulate  myself  on 
being  freed  from  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  the 
Theatre;  its  conventional  trammels,  and  its  inhar 
monious  accompaniments. 

"  Aye,  marry  1  now  my  soul  has  elbow-room !  " 

There  is  nothing  to  contract  its  flight,  to  disturb 
or  interrupt  the  current  of  my  conceptions,  or  to  break 
the  consistency  of  my  design.  If  my  audience  do  not 
answer  to  my  calls  on  their  emotions  by  a  sympa 
thetic  communion  of  heart  and  mind  with  mine,  then 
the  fault  and  the  shame  are  mine  alone.  If  they  do, 
if  they  follow  me,  not  only  with  eye  and  ear,  but  with 


THE  LECTURE  ROOM SHAKSPERE.      329 


quick  and  ready  vibration  of  the  chords  of  feeling, 
awakened  by  touch  or  tone  of  mine — if  we  are  united 
for  the  moment,  in  a  brotherhood  of  affectionate 
reverence  for  him  who  stood  at  Nature's  altar  as  her 
high  priest,  to  whom  she  committed  the  arcana  of  her 
mysteries,  and  gave  the  magic  key  that  unlocks  the 
fountains  of  the  heart — if,  through  my  ministration, 
a  thought,  a  word,  a  precept  of  his  shall  take  root  in  a 
single  mind,  and  bear  for  fruit  the  study  of  his  liberal 
philosophy,  the  love  of  his  enlarged  humanity,  to 
which  nothing  that  is  of  man  is  indifferent — then  I 
shall  feel  that  the  tangled  yarn  of  my  life  has  at  least 
some  golden  threads  in  it,  though  few  and  rare,  and 
that  I  have  cast  at  least  a  pebble,  on  the  great  cairn 
raised  by  the  world  to  Shakspere's  name. 


330  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 


XVIII. 

SUMMING-UP— Advice  to  tlie  Stage-struck— A  View  of  the  present  Condition  of 
the  Stage— The  Theatre  and  its  Purposes— Farewell. 

IN  November,  1858,  I  had  the  honor  to  be  admitted 
to  practice  at  the  Bar,  in  this  country. 

Perhaps  my  recent  assumption  of  this  character 
will  be  sufficient  to  authorise,  and  excuse,  my  final 
summing-up  of  the  result  of  my  experience  of  theatri 
cal  life,  with  a  few  words  vi  gratuitous  advice  "  to  all 
whom  these  presents  may  concern." 

To  any  ingenuous  youth,  then,  who  may  be  now 
meditating  a  plunge  into  that  uncertain,  or  rather  cer 
tain,  "  sea  of  troubles,"  that  shines  and  glitters  in  the 
seductive  dazzle  of  the  footlights — to  such  a  one  I 
say : — Go  to  sea,  in  reality  ;  go  to  law,  go  to  church, 
go  to  physic ;  go  to  Italy  and  strike  a  blow  for  liberty, 
(if  cause  and  opportunity  again  offer ;)  go  to  any  thing, 
or  anywhere,  that  will  give  you  an  honest  and  decent 
livelihood,  rather  than  go  upon  the  stage! 

To  any  young  lady  with  a  similar  proclivity,  I 
would  say : — Buy  a  sewing  machine,  and  take  in 
plain-work,  first !  So  shall  you  save  yourself  much 
sorrow,  bitter  disappointment,  secret  tears. 


THE   STAGE.  331 

Unless  lie  be  eminent,  an  actor  is  nobody.  His 
motto  must  be  aut  Ccesar  ant  nullus  /  or  he  will 
always  be  a  subaltern.  He  must  have  the  Hotspur 
feeling,  that 

"  it  were  an  easy  leap 
To  pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-fuced  moon," 

or  he  will  make  no  spring  at  all. 

Yet  how  few  can,  or  do,  attain  to  eminence.  And 
even  eminence,  now-a-days,  when  attained,  does  not 
lead  to  great  material  results.  The  day  for  making 
fortunes  on  the  stage  is  past ;  while  the  same,  or  a 
less  amount  of  persevering  labor  than  is  requisite  to 
raise  a  man  to  distinction  in  the  theatrical  profession, 
would  make  him  rich,  in  any  other. 

A  man  may  be  a  second  or  third-rate  preacher, 
lawyer,  doctor,  architect,  engineer,  and  make  a  good 
income,  hold  a  respectable  position,  live  in  clover,  die 
in  honor,  be  buried  in  state,  and  lie  under  ostentatious 
marble  with  an  adulatory  epitaph,  enumerating  the 
virtues  which  he  ought  to  have  possessed — a  rather 
doubtful  certificate  for  Paradise  ! 

An  actor  is  great,  or  nothing : 

"Mediocribus  esse  poetis 
Non  Di,  non  hominess,  non  concessere  columns." 

is  as  applicable,  mutato  nomine*  to  players  (histrioni- 
l)i(s)  as  to  poets ;  for,  certes,  a  middling  actor,  neither 
gods  (in  the  gallery),  men  (in  the  pit),  nor  critics  in 
the  columns  of  newspapers — can  endure  ! 

As  for  the  idea  that  there  is  any  thing  degrading 
in  the  practice  of  the  actor's  art,  in  itself,  that,  I  im 
agine,  is  a  worn-out  prejudice.  Can  it  degrade  the 


332  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

mind  to  devote  one's  powers  to  the  vocal  interpreta 
tion  of  the  outpourings  of  a  great  poet's  heart  and 
brain  ;  to  identify  oneself,  by  a  subtle,  metaphysical 
transformation — of  which  a  great  actor  only  is  capa 
ble — with  the  lofty  aspirations,  and  the  enthusiastic 
hopes  and  feelings  of  the  noblest  heroes  and  patriots — 
the  high  intelligences  of  past  ages — that,  by  the  poet's 
"  so  potent  art,"  are  recalled  to  transient  life,  upon 
the  mimic  scene  ?  And,  in  the  exhibition  of  the  dark 
er  passions  of  our  nature — as  men  have  been  con 
sidered  benefactors  to  science,  who  have  bequeathed 
their  bodies  for  dissection,  for  the  advancement  of 
physical  knowledge, — is  he  not  a  public  benefactor 
who  devotes  himself,  living,  body  and  mind,  to  the 
animated  illustration  of  the  terrible  workings  of  pas 
sion,  and  lays  bare  his  own  trembling  and  quivering 
heart  for  our  intellectual  profit  and  example,  and  the 
discipline  and  correction  of  our  minds  ? 

This  is  what  the  great  actor  does,  who  stands 
before  us  the  lit  representative  of  Macbeth,  Othello, 
Lear,  and  other  characters  of  passionate  excess,  car 
rying  with,  them  the  retribution  of  suffering  and  des 
pair.  To  do  this  worthily,  the  actor  must  devote 
himself  to  the  study  of  the  human  heart,  its  nicest 
shades  and  subtleties ;  the  various  characters  of  men, 
the  springs  and  motives  of  their  actions,  their  pas 
sions,  and  the  expression  of  those  passions,  as  modi 
fied  by  age,  character,  or  circumstances ;  and,  fortified 
with  this  study,  and  this  knowledge,  he  must  set 
himself  to  present  pictures  of  humanity  in  the  strong 
colors  of  truth,  touched  by  the  softening  pencil  of  poetry, 
and  gilded  with  the  light  of  imagination.  If,  to  the 


TASTE   OF   THE   DAY.  333 

fulfilment  of  this  task,  he  should  bring  sensibility, 
taste,  fancy,  mental  culture  ;  a  noble  and  flexible 
voice,  a  tine  presence,  a  graceful  bearing ;  and 
should  crown  the  whole  by  an  education  that 
should  have  elevated  his  intellect,  and  attuned  his 
soul  to  the  grand  and  the  beautiful,  by  communion  with 
the  great  poets  and  orators — then,  to  be  called  the 
first  actor  of  the  day  would,  indeed  be  a  noble  title ! 
Such  a  one  would  be  the  living,  breathing  word  of  the 
poet  and  the  philosopher ;  the  voice  of  the  oracles  of 
their  wisdom  ;  the  high-priest  at  the  shrine  of  human 
nature,  the  interpreter  of  man  to  man  himself ! 

And  if  such  a  man  were  wanted  at  the  present 
day  ;  if  the  public  taste — or  inclination  rather,  let  us 
call  it — demanded  so  high  a  standard,  doubtless  such  a 
one  would  arise.  Garrick,  and  John  Kemble  were, 
from  traditional  report,  men  of  such  minds  and  such 
accomplishments. 

But  the  fancy  of  the  day  runs  in  a  much  lower 
direction,  and  seeks  for  much  inferior  sources  of  gra 
tification  ;  so  that  eminence,  now-a-days,  does  not  im 
ply  greatness.  For  it  is  not  the  grand,  the  lofty,  the 
noble,  the  pre-eminent,  that  pleases  ;  but  the  flashy,  the 
slight,  the  trivial,  the  transient,  which  delights.  It 
is  in  vain  to  cry  out  on  the  decline  of  theatrical  talent. 
It  is  the  public  taste  that  makes  actors,  and  elevates  or 
depresses  them,  as  it  is  itself  high  or  low.  Authors 
write  plays,  dramas,  farces,  such  as  will  please  ;  the 
actors  fulfil  their  task,  and  perform  all  that  can  be 
required  of  them,  in  being  equal  to  what  is  set  down 
for  them  by  the  author,  and  what  the  public  requires. 
It  is  hardly  probable  that,  henceforth,  men  and  wo- 


334  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

men  of  education  and  talent  will  embrace  the  stage 
as  a  profession  ;  for  those  qualities  are  daily  less  call 
ed  for  in  its  practice.  Petty  pieces  make  petty  actors. 
A  great  theme  demands  a  great  poet ;  a  rhymester  is 
sufficient  for  a  paltry  subject.  No  great  artist  was 
ever  made  by  painting  dwarfs  and  caricatures,  though 
he  may  occasionally  have  indulged  in  such  triflings  ; 
nor  were  Garrick,  Kemble,  and  others,  the  great 
masters  of  the  dramatic  art,  formed  by  cramping 
their  powers  to  the  dimensions  of  local  dramas,  occa 
sional  pieces,  or  the  sweepings  of  the  French  Theatre  : 
and  these  are  the  staple  commodity  of  the  modern 
stage,  furnished  in  compliance  with  the  require 
ments  of  the  taste  of  the  day. 

I  am  willing  to  confess  that,  in  my  experience  of 
the  stage,  I  never  recollect  a  period  since  I  was  a 
boy,  when  the  legitimate  drama,  as  it  is  called,  in  its 
highest  form. — the  tragedies  of  Shakspere,  the  com 
edies  of  Sheridan  and  his  compeers,  or  the  plays  of 
Knowles  and  his  contemporaries, — were  sufficient, 
even  when  nnexceptionably  played,  to  keep  a  London 
Theatre  open  with  good  houses  ;  unless  aided  by  some 
extraordinary  combination  of  talent,  or  some  extrava 
gant  outlay  for  spectacle  ard  scenery,  which  rendered 
it  unprofitable,  if  not  ruinous  to  the  manager. 

We  know  full  well,  that  John  Kemble,  Charles 
Kemble,  and  Mrs.  Siddons,  frequently  played  together 
to  bad  houses  at  Covent  Garden  5  and  that  the  mana 
ger  of  that  day  was  compelled  to  have  recourse  to 
mere  spectacle,  even  to  the  introduction  of  horses  on 
the  stage,  to  prop  the  falling  fortunes  of  his  house. 

Garrick   himself,   we   know,   from   his  life,   was 


STATE   OF    THE    STAGE.  335 

under  the  necessity  of  refreshing  his  waning  popu 
larity  by  an  absence  on  the  continent.  Edmund 
Kean's  novelty  wearing  off  in  London,  it  was  neces 
sary  to  back  him  up  by  the  junction  of  Mr.  Young, 
an  actor  of  the  Kemble  school ;  and  their  union,  for 
a  time  only,  drew  audiences  which  neither,  alone, 
though  supported  by  the  strongest  companies,  could 
attract.  I  have  myself  seen  Mr.  Macready,  and  Miss 
Helen  Faucit  together,  at  the  Hay  market  Theatre, 
more  than  once,  play  to  considerably  less  than  the 
nightly  expenses  of  the  house.  At  this  moment,  I 
do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  living  tragedian  who 
could,  on  his  own  attraction,  half  till  any  first  class 
London  Theatre,  even  if  supported  by  an  unimpeach 
able  company.  It  is  a  fact  that  more  money  is  now- 
a-days  spent  in  theatrical  amusements  nightly,  than 
was  ever  known  in  what  are  called  the  palmy  days 
of  the  drama ;  and  it  is  also  a  fact  that  the  pieces  that 
find  most  favor,  are  those  of  the  lightest  and  flimsiest 
texture. 

As  an  art,  therefore,  acting  is  fast  dying  out ;  for 
there  remains  no  school  for  its  cultivation.  Drury 
Lane  and  Covent  Garden,  were  formerly  such  schools, 
in  which  the  great  actors  of  that  day  flourished,  for 
the  example  of  the  younger  ones  who  should  succeed 
them  ;  but,  these  great  English  theatres  are  now  both 
converted  into  Italian  Opera  Houses.  Mr.  Charles 
Kean  has  terminated  his  connexion  with  the  Princess's 
Theatre,  and  so  ends  his  series  of  Shaksperean  Revi 
vals;  which,  according  to  his  own  showing,  did  not 
remunerate  him,  and  which  nothing  but  his  own 
private  means  enabled  him  to  carry  out.  The  Hay- 


336  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

market  Theatre  alone  remains  for  the  production  of 
plays  and  dramas — chiefly  taken  from  the  French,  the 
main  purpose  of  which  is  the  exhibition  of  Mr.  Buck- 
stone,  the  manager's  drolleries — the  annual  Christmas 
Pantomime  and  Easter  Burlesque.  Such  is  the  state 
of  the  Drama  in  England. 

In  this  country,  it  is  much  the  same.  Tragedy 
and  Comedy,  properly  so-called,  no  longer  attract  or 
interest  an  audience  ;  they  have  become  as  wearisome 
as  a  thrice-told  tale ;  their  place  has  been  taken  by 
drama,  melodrama,  interlude  and  farce. 

Mr.  Forrest  is  the  only  Tragedian  who  can  fill,  or 
even  half  fill  a  theatre  in  New  York,  by  his  own 
attraction;  and  the  other  legitimate  stars  (heaven 
save  the  mark !)  are  compelled  to  confine  their  il 
lusory  brightness  to  the  Western  cities,  with  not  very 
dazzling  effect  even  there.  A  lower  and  less  culti 
vated  audience  has  succeeded  to  the  critical  and  discri 
minating  public,  whose  approval  it  was  once  an  actor's 
ambition  to  merit  and  obtain  ;  and  the  style  of  the 
stage  is  lowered  accordingly.  Actor  and  auditor  act 
and  re-act  on  each  other.  Kant  has  taken  the  place 
of  passion  ;  extravagance  has  banished  simple  nature 
and  truth.  That  "  smoothness  and  temperance  "  which 
Shakspere  inculcated,  and  which  was  once  consid 
ered  the  acme  of  art — "  even  in  the  torrent,  tem 
pest,  and  whirlwind  of  passion," — is  now  regarded 
as  "  slow ; "  and,  as  the  sign,  not  of  a  proper  self- 
control,  and  well-regulated  taste,  but  of  a  want  of 
energy  and  power :  as  if  violence  were  not  always 
a  mark  of  self-distrust,  and  a  want  of  self-com 
mand. 


MANNERS   OF    THE    STAGE.  337 

There  was  a  time,  too,  when  the  stage  was  re 
garded  as  a  school  of  refined  pronunciation,  elegant 
carriage,  and  distinguished  manners.  The  great 
comedians  were  men  of  high  cultivation,  and  accom 
plished  in  all  the  externals  of  a  gentleman.  They 
kept  the  best  society,  were  formed  in  it,  and  by  it ; 
and  perpetuated  and  popularized  its  graces.  Society 

"  lent  them  no  grace  they  did  not  pay  it  back ;  " 

and  to  see  them,  on  the  stage,  was  like  being  admitteu 
to  a  most  agreeable,  high-bred  party.  It  was  a  kind 
of  education,  in  the  day  of  Elliston,  Lewis,  Charles 
Kernble,  and  their  immediate  successors,  to  witness  a 
good  comedy ; — we  learn  this  from  Lamb  and  Haz- 
litt ; — and  men,  to  a  certain  degree,  copied  the  bear 
ing,  gestures,  pronunciation,  style,  and  carriage  of 
these  artists,  who  made  grace,  and  elegance  of  speech 
and  action,  the  particular  object  of  their  study. 

"  How  many  fine  gentlemen,"  exclaims  Ilazlitt, 
"  do  we  owe  to  the  stage  !  "  Mrs.  Montfort  and  Mrs. 
Abington  were  the  models  of  fine  ladies  in  their  day ; 
and  divided  the  town  on  the  point  of  superiority  in 
elegance.  It  was  her  lady-like  air  and  refinement  of 
manner  that  set  a  coronet  on  the  brow  of  Miss  Farren, 
and  elevated  the  representative  of  Lady  Teazle,  to  the 
state  of  the  Countess  of  Derby.  It  was  the  same  on  the 
French  Stage  in  the  day  of  Racine,  Moliere,  and  Vol 
taire.  A  celebrated  beauty  and  wit  of  the  Court  of 
Louis  XV.,  declared  that  she  was  acquainted  with  but 
two  men  who  knew  how  to  converse  with  ladies — Le 
Kain,  the  actor,  and  the  Marquis  de  Vaudreuil. 

These  qualities  are,  now-a-days,  not  looked  for  by 
15 


338  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  public  ;  and  are,  consequently,  not  cultivated  by 
the  actor.  Yulgar  familiarity  passes  for  easy  ele 
gance  ;  strut  and  swagger  for  dignity  and  grace. 
Buffoonery  is  more  welcome  to  the  general  audience 
than  humor;  practical  jokes  than  the  most  sparkling 
wit;  and  every  thing  is  sacrificed  to  the  bringing 
down  a  round  of  applause,  or  the  raising  a  boisterous 
laugh. 

Is  this  the  fault  of  the  actor  ?  No ;  it  is  the  fault 
of  the  public  :  for 

u  The  Drama's  laws  the  Drama's  patrons  give, 
And  they  who  live  to  please,  must  please,  to  live !  " 

It  is,  of  course,  within  the  province  of  the  drama's  pa 
trons  to  choose  the  nature  and  quality  of  their  amuse 
ments  ;  but  they  cannot,  with  any  appearance  of  con 
sistency,  turn  round  upon  the  actors,  and  blame  them 
for  the  decline  of  the  stage,  as  an  elegant,  a  refined 
and  refining  source  of  pleasure,  when  that  decline  is 
the  result  of  the  public's  own  action,  and  of  a  compli 
ance  with  its  standard  of  taste.  The  actor  is  not  to  be 
expected  to  be  above  his  audience  ;  and,  though  he 
may — as,  no  doubt,  he  frequently  does — despise  them 
in  his  heart;  yet,  if  he  continue  to  appear  before 
them,  he  will  assuredly  fall  to  the  level  of  their  taste 
and  desires,  however  repugnant  they  may  be  to  his 
own. 

I  have  never  claimed  for  the  stage  the  dignity  of  a 
moral  teacher ;  though  it  does,  in  practice,  frequently 
fulfil  that  office,  incidentally ;  but  that  is  supereroga 
tory  :  something  which,  it  may  do,  and  frequently  does, 
but  which  it  cannot  be  required  to  do ;  and  which, 


ART   AND    MORALS.  339 

when  it  does,  it  puts  forth  an  additional  claim  to  the 
support  of  the  wise  and  the  good.  Art  and  morals  are 
distinct :  it  is  only  to  be  required  that  they  shall  not 
be  antagonistic.  The  Laocoon — 

"  The  father's  love  and  mortars  agony 
With  an  immortal's  patience  blending ;  " 

and  the  Apollo  Belvidere, — 

The  God  of  life,  and  poesy,  and  light — 
The  Sun  in  human  limbs  array'd,  and  brow 
All  radiant  from  his  triumph  in  the  fight, — 

these  great  creations  of  the  sculptor's  chisel  are  pre 
served  and  cherished  to  delight  the  eye  of  taste,  as 
works  of  art,  and  as  types  of  humanity  in  its  most  ele 
vated  aspect.  Who  expects  them  to  point  a  moral  from 
their  pedestals  ?  Their  purpose  is  to  stand  perpetual 
models  of  ideal  beauty  and  grace — triumphs  of  the 
art  which  arrays  the  "  poetic  marble "  in  eternal 
glory. 

So,  to  claim  for  the  Stage,  or  to  demand  for  it,  the 
office  or  the  dignity  of  a  Moral  Instructor,  is  absurd ; 
that  is  not  its  purpose  or  its  province.  We  have  no 
more  right  to  expect  the  Stage  to  be  either  a  pulpit, 
or  a  school  of  morals,  than  we  are  entitled  to  demand 
of  it  theological  discourses,  or  lessons  in  political  sci 
ence.  The  stage  is  simply  a  picture  of  human  life  in 
action,  in  which  man  may  see  himself  "  as  in  a  glass ;  " 
both  "  his  better  and  his  worser  part "  fairly  exhib 
ited  ;  and,  if  the  exhibition  be  a  true  one,  it  is  the 
fault  of  the  looker-on,  himself,  if  he  be  not  moved  by 
self-contemplation  to  self-correction  and  improvement. 


340  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

The  moral  must  be  left  to  be  inferred  by  the  con 
science  of  the  audience. 

"  Is  there  no  play 
To  ease  the  anguish  of  a  torturing  hour  ?  " 

exclaims  Theseus,  in  the  Midsummer-Night's  Dream. 
If  the  Stage  furnish  an  intellectual  relaxation  for  the 
mental  drudgery  of  thought,  a  relief  to  the  cares  and 
business  of  the  day,  it  fulfils  its  purpose,  and  deserves 
well  of  the  commonwealth,  as  long  as  it  avoids  coarse 
ness,  vulgarity,  and  buffoonery.  When  it  degenerates 
into  these  ;  when  it  no  longer  aims,  by  the  elevation 
of  the  pictures  it  presents, 

"  To  touch  the  soul  with  tender  strokes  of  art, 
"  To  wake  the  genius,  and  to  mend  the  heart," — 

then,  it  ceases  to  be  worthy  the  pursuit  of  a  self-re 
specting  man,  or  of  the  support  of  a  refined  and  self- 
respecting  community. 

It  is,  in  fact,  writh  the  public  and  the  press  that  the 
correction  and  regulation  of  the  Theatre  must  lie. 
Who  are  the  natural  censors  of  the  Stage,  if  not  the 
public  who  patronize,  and  the  press  whose  duty  it  is 
to  animadvert  upon  it  ? 

"  The  Theatre,"  says  Sneer,  in  the  <  Critic,'  "  in 
proper  hands,  might  certainly  be  made  the  school  of 
morality ;  but  now,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  people  seem 
to  go  there  principally  for  their  entertainment" 

This  ironical  sentence  of  the  cynical  Sneer  con 
tains  the  whole  gist  of  the  matter.  People  go  to  the 
Theatre  to  be  amused,  to  be  entertained  ;  and  all  that 
it  behoves  the  moralist  or  the  legislator  to  see  to  is, 


THE   THEATRE.  341 

that  the  entertainment  shall  be  wholesome — that  the 
popular  mind,  especially  the  youthful  portion  of  it,  be 
not  corrupted  by  its  amusements,  nor  drink  from  a 
treacherous,  Circean  cup,  poison  instead  of  refresh 
ment. 

Let  press  and  public  do  its  duty :  the  power  is  in 
their  hands  to  sustain  or  to  condemn.  The  amuse 
ments  of  a  people  take  their  tone  from  the  people 
themselves ;  and  the  Theatre  is,  of  all  institutions  for 
the  people,  the  one  most  subject  to,  most  under  the 
control  of,  public  opinion. 

"  The  Drama's  laws  the  Drama's  patrons  give, 
And  they  who  live  to  please,  must  please,  to  live." 

That  is  the  kernel  of  the  whole  matter. 


Perhaps  it  will  not  be  deemed  an  inappropriate 
closing  of  these  "  Leaves,"  if  I  end  with  a  passage 
from  a  satirical  poem  of  my  own,  entitled  "  Common- 
Sense,"  which  I  have  delivered  on  several  occasions 
in  New  York,  Boston,  Albany,  Baltimore,  Cincinnati, 
and  other  cities.  It  expresses  my  view  of  the  Stage, 
as  a  social  institution,  and  an  intellectual  relaxation, 
worthy  the  anxious  attention  of  the  Philosopher,  the 
Moralist,  and  the  Statesman. 

THE  THEATRE. 

Youth  seeks  amusement  as  for  light  of  day 
Pine  flowers,  and  drink  bright  colors  from  its  ray ; 
Who  would  condemn  to  shade  the  rose's  bloom, 
Or  bid  it  waste  on  darkness  its  perfume  ? 


342  AN  ACTOR'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

As  well  Youth's  fresh  impulsive  spring  to  cage, 

And  chill  its  summer  with  the  frosts  of  age ! 

Those  solemn  Mentors  who,  with  awful  frown, 

Would  put  each  popular  amusement  down, 

Bar  whist,  the  Theatre,  the  lively  dance, 

Send  Waltz  and  Polka  skipping  back  to  France, 

May  well  take  heed  lest  in  their  zeal  to  curse 

Each  favorite  sport,  they  drive  their  flocks  to  worse  ! 

There  is  a  time  for  serious  thought,  for  prayer, 
An  hour  for  pleasure  and  an  hour  for  care  ; 
The  mind  must  have  relief,  relax,  unbend, 
Or  stupor,  gloom,  will  be  its  dismal  end ; 
Mere  idleness  is  the  high  road  to  sin, 
The  heart,  all  empty,  lets  the  tempter  in ; 
Debarr'd  from  wholesome  spur,  'twill  fly  to  evil, 
And  give  itself  to  rurn  and  to  the  devil, — 
Well  if  the  gallows-tree,  or  maniac's  chain 
Revenge  not  Nature  and  her  outraged  reign ! 

The  point  to  aim  at  's  mental  recreation, 
The  rock  to  shun  is  moral  dissipation ; 
Plain  COMMON-SENSE  may  surely  draw  the  line, 
Without  the  aid  of  Schoolman  or  Divine. 

The  Elephant  that  stands  upon  his  head 
And  dances  hornpipes,  surely  can't  be  said — 
With  all  his  aptness  for  insane  tuition, — 
To  be  an  Intellectual  Exhibition : 
And  none,  I'm  sure,  but  very  silly  gabies, 
To  woolly  horses  flock,  or  logus-baMes. 

From  Pan's  rude  reeds  the  solemn  organ  grew ; 
A  panting  kettle  first  attention  drew 
To  steam's  vast  power :  e'en  Fulton  might  have  toil'd 
And  died  unknown, — had  not  the  Icettle  boiVd  f 
To  Franklin's  kite  that  drew  from  heav'n  its  fire, 
We  trace  the  germ  of  telegraphic  wire, 


THE   THEATRE.  343 

And  two  vast  continents  may  owe  the  joy 

Of  close  communion,  to  a  paper  toy ! 

From  small  beginnings  vast  conceptions  rise  : 

If  sound,  the  project  lives,  if  hollow,  dies : 

So,  from  the  humble  plank  of  Thespis'  cart, 

First  dawn'd  the  DRAMA,  rose  the  actor's  art ; 

How  vast  a  progress  from  the  crude,  first  thought 

Have  mellowing  Time  and  conqu'ring  Genius  wrought ! 

Where  Ganges  rolls — ere  Europe's  stage  began, 
A  native  Drama  rose  in  HINDOSTAN  : 
Yes,  there,  in  that  wild  land,  in  earliest  ago 
The  Hindoo  had  his  DRAMA  and  his  stage : 
In  every  age.  in  prose,  blank  verse,  or  rhyme 
Some  form  of  Drama  lives  in  every  clime. 
Think  you  the  stage  plays  an  ignoble  part, 
That  thus  it  stirs  the  Universal  Heart  ?— 
The  Stage's  purpose  ask  of  COMMON-SENSE  j 
'Tis  surely  to  amuse,  without  offence 
To  taste,  to  virtue,  decency  or  truth, 
To  virgin  modesty,  or  candid  youth  ; — 
To  "  show  the  age  and  body  of  the  time," 
Or  stained  with  folly,  or  debased  with  crime ; — 
The  world's  great  glass,  wherein  Humanity 
May  view,  in  action,  Life's  epitome. 

'Tis  not  the  province  of  a  social  Art 
To  lash  at  vice,  and  snatch  the  Pulpit's  part : 
The  Painter's  pencil  takes  no  moral  view  : — 
Good  taste  requires  his  drawing  shall  be  true, 
His  colors  fair,  perspective  just ;  the  scene, 
Such  as  from  Nature }s  studio  he  may  glean : 
Tell  him  his  works  no  moral  maxim  teach, 
He'll  say — his  business  is  to  paint,  not  preach  ; 
Sufficient  if  his  canvas  shall  display 
No  vulgar  detail,  no  offensive  trait* 

*  This  is  a  good  rhyme  to  English  ears,  a  bad  one  to  American ;  in  England,  the 
word  trait  retains  ita  French  sound  in  pronunciation,  (like  tray ;)  in  America  it  is 
anglicised  to  rhyme  with  fate. 


344  AN    ACTOP/S   NOTE-BOOK. 

Such,  too,  the  Drama's  plea  and  just  defence, 
Arraigned  before  the  Bar  of  COMMON-SENSE. 

The  TKAGIC  MUSE  Man's  deepest  passions  shows : 

Invests  with  life  imaginary  woes, 

Or  lays  the  wounded,  writhing  spirit  bare, 

In  all  the  torture  of  a  black  despair  : — 

But  when  for  harlot  guilt  she  claims  our  tears, 

Then  drive  her  from  the  scene  with  mocking  jeers; 

A  recreant,  false,  deceitful,  whimp'ring  jade 

That  sports  with  feeling,  and  makes  tears  a  trade !  * 

"Whose  is  the  fault  if  you  don't  interfere  ? 

The  players  act  what  you  delight  to  hear : 

Did  you  but  hiss,  or,  better,  stay  away, 

You'd  ostracise  each  false,  licentious  play : 

No  manager  repeats  what  does  not  pay. 

Yet  nobly  SHAKSPERE'S  acted  moral  shows, 
That  straight  from  heart  to  head  instruction  goes  ; 
Not  by  dull  rule  or  musty  apothegm 
Conceiv'd  in  spleen,  begot  in  cynic  phlegm ; 
His  is  no  fable  with  a  moral  tail 
Tac'k  on  for  clearness,  if  the  text  should  fail : — 
Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Othello,  Shylock,  Lear, 
No  shadowy  forms  from  fancy's  realm  appear, 
But  living,  thinking,  tortured  flesh  and  blood, 
As  if  before  our  eyes  exact  they  stood: 
"We  see  them,  know  them,  feel  they  acted  so ; 
Question  their  minds,  wonder  what  next  they'll  do ; 
And  when,  at  length  the  closing  curtain's  down, 
"We  grieve,  as  if  the  suffering  were  our  own, 
Take  home  the  lesson  to  our  silent  bed, 
And  con  the  sermon  by  the  poet  read. 

*  As  in  such  plays  as  La  Dame  aux  Camtlias ;  produced  on  the  American 
Stage  under  the  title  of  Camille,  in  which  a  harlot  is  the  heroine,  and  dies  a  mar 
tyr  to  virtuous  love,  the  hard-7ieartedness  of  Society  and—  Consumption  !  Faugh 


"An  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary, 
To  sweeten  my  imagination  ! " 


THE   THEATRE.  345 

Thus  Shakspere  works ;  but  you  need  not  be  told 

When  Nature  made  his  mind  she  broke  the  mould  ;* 

Her  greatest  triumph  and  her  sole  despair ; 

He  "  had  no  brother  "  and  he  left  no  heir; 

No  second  Shakspere  shall  the  world  e'er  see, — 

Abstract  and  voice  of  all  humanity  ! 

The  COMIO  MUSE  trips  lightly  on  the  stage, 
Holding  her  mirror  to  the  fleeting  Age  : 
"With  wit  and  humor  harmless  laughter  moves ; 
Mocks  fashion's  follies,  and  its  fickle  loves ; 
With  diamond  pencil  polishes  her  phrase, 
And  many-colored  forms  of  life  displays. 
What  if  false  sentiment,  perhaps  e'en  worse, 
Loose  words,  may  stain  the  comic  poet's  verse  ? 
Efface  them, — hiss!  they  are  its  shame,  not  boast; 
Shall  useful  service  for  a  word  be  lost  ? 
The  skilful  doctor  does  the  best  he  can 
To  cure  the  fever,  not  to  kill  the  man. 

The  Drama 's  now  a  great  establish'd  fact 
That  can't  be  blink'd,  ignored ;  howe'er  attack'd 
By  vain  abuse  or  angry  prejudice ; 
The  time's  gone  by  when  playing  was  a  vice  ; 
When  bigots  mark'd  the  actor  with  a  ban, 
(Tho'  saintly  crowds  to  hear  his  accents  ran,) 
Denied  him  sacred  rite  and  hallowed  grave, — 
Filching  from  God  the  soul  he  made  to  save, — 
And,  for  the  pleasure  which  his  life  had  giv'n 
On  earth,  refused  him,  dead,  a  place  in  heav'n. 
No  !  wiser  days  bring  gentler  feelings  in, 
And  "  Nature's  touches  make  the  whole  world  kin !  "  t 

*  This  idea  I  borrowed  (unconsciously  at  the  time— I  discovered  the  source  af 
terwards,)  from  Byron's  Monody  to  Sheridan ;  but  it  is  surely,  much  more  applica 
ble  to  Shakspere ;  brilliant  as  Sheridan  was,  his  genius  was  not,  like  Shakspere's, 
universal. 

t  The  absurd  bigotry  that  formerly  excommunicated  Actors  and  denied  them 
the  rites  of  the  Church,  in  Roman  Catholic  countries,  is  now  mentioned  to  be 
smiled  at.  Fancy  Moliere,  being  denied  burial  in  consecrated  ground ! 

15* 


346  AN  ACTOK'S  NOTE-BOOK. 

Then,  since  no  power  can  "  put  the  Drama  down  ; " 

Best  try,  by  reason,  to  improve  its  tone  : 

Don't  cut  it  root  and  branch,  with  ruthless  knife, 

But  wisely  prune  it  to  more  healthful  life ; 

So  shall  it  thrive  and  bloom  a  goodly  tree, — 

Bearing  rich  fruit,  from  blight,  or  canker  free  ; 

Ennobling  thoughts  shall  twine  around  its  stem, 

It's  leaves  shall  grace  the  Poet's  diadem, 

Domestic  virtues  flourish  in  its  shade, 

Till  moralists,  disarm'd,  shall  own  its  aid 

To  warn,  instruct,  encourage,  and  persuade. 


In  taking  leave  of  the  Theatrical  profession,  in 
these  pages, — for  I  have  never  taken  any  formal  pub 
lic  "  farewell "  of  it, — let  me  express  my  kindest 
wishes  for  the  well-doing  of  all  those  with  whom  I 
have  sometime  trod  the  mimic  scene.  Most  espe 
cially  do  I  wish  success  and  honor  to  such  as  con 
scientiously  strive  to  maintain  the  dignity  and  grace 
of  the  stage,  and  aspire  to  merit  a  share  in  that  no 
ble  eulogy,  by  which — through  the  person  of  John 
Kemble — the  poet,  Campbell,  has  shed  a  glory  on  the 
profession  of  the  Stage : 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  ACTING  lends, 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends  : 
For  ill  can  POETKY  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  painting,  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time  : 


FAREWELL.  347 

But,  by  the  mighty  ACTOR  brought 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come, — 

Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 
And  SCULPTURE  to  be  dumb  ! 


THE     END. 


f 

4 


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